Control
by xXdollstitchesXx
Summary: Goren seeks outside assistance when confronted by a BTK style killer. I lied!
1. Scene

The staircase is dark, and musty, as if it hadn't been used in years. Only the faint wafting of his partner's perfume gives him temporary relief from the suffocating scent, which has now crawled into his nostrils and settled in, sucking up any moisture that may have been there. This momentary distraction causes him to stumble, nearly introducing his face to the stair in a most unpleasant manner.

"Still breaking in the new shoes?" his partner cracks.

"Still...um...breaking in my feet" he shyly jokes back, without the slightest hint of a smile. His ears perk to the click, whine and pop of over anxious cameras that can be heard through the door leading to the stairway. Slowly, he nudges the door open and slinks through, his eyes searching for…there. In the middle of the hall. Men in blue cloistered outside an open doorway, chattering nervously. Her heels click behind him as he stalks down the hallway, purposefully. Without realizing it, he's already reached into his overcoat and retrieved his badge, cupping it in his palm, ready to be shown when asked.

He places his hand on the shoulder of the officer nearest to him. The man turns to find Goren's huge frame and badge inches from his face. Eames smirks to herself, noting that a month locked up in a room with Miss Manners wouldn't cure her partner's boundary issues. "Hi…I'm uh…Detective Goren. This is my partner" gesturing behind him, "Detective Eames. We're here from Major Case…is there a…um, D-DIC we can speak with?"

"Right over there, Sir. Grey jacket, Mahoney."

Goren sidesteps the deputy and searches the crowd for a grey jacket. He spots the man near the window at the back of the apartment, apparently inspecting the window latch. He takes one step into the room. Instantly his nose is violently assaulted by the smell of iron and musk. Blood. Three more steps into the room leads him to the source. A naked blonde woman is strung up in the middle of the living room, her arms over her head, and her knees bent with her legs behind her at an almost perfect ninety degree angle. Fighting his instinct, Goren decides it best to introduce himself to the man in charge before conducting his inspection of the scene. He was, as usual, on thin ice with Deakins, and had made a conscious effort in the last few months to correct his…offending…behavior. He snaps his head away from the victim and once again finds Mahoney, this time talking to Random Deputy B. With one huge step he is next to the man in the grey jacket, sticking up his badge, as if in surrender. He is halfway through his introduction when the man interrupts him.

"MCS, huh? Yeah, I got a call about you guys dropping by. Apparently, you've seen shit like this before." He huffs quietly, "As if we haven't." Still, he politely sticks out his hand to Goren, and then Eames. "Vic's name is Charlotte Truman, 24 years old, transplant from Connecticut…one of those wasp types, you know?" As he speaks he leads the team over to where the woman is hanging. Goren loses touch with Mahoney's voice as he narrows in on the girl.

Somehow, a pair of latex gloves has made their way onto his hands, stopping a full inch short of his wrists. He keeps forgetting to add "Extra Large Latex gloves" to the office supply list. It's enough to conduct a satisfactory inspection without contamination though, and he once again pushes the idea out of his head. Behind him, the drone of voices continues: Eame's, Mahoney's, Random Deputy's C, D and B.

His eyes drift upward, to the configuration that is keeping the girl in such a strange position, despite being well past rigor. Two metal rings, thick and silver, jut down from the ceiling, perfectly parallel from each other. He follows a line of dark blue rope threaded through the rings, to the victim's wrists, which are extended above her head. Pushing his sleeve up, he slowly reaches over and brushes back the victim's hair, revealing her neck, and the dark blue rope that surrounds it.

_Snap, snap goes Eames' gloves._

_Click, whine, pop goes the camera._

_Sssh, sssh goes the crime scene booties._

Pulling her hair completely behind her neck and holding it there, he examines the path of the rope on her skin. Wrists, ceiling, neck, breasts, stomach, waist, front of thighs, knees, front of shins, ankles. Descending from her neck, the rope trails a path between her breasts, encircling them once each, then down to her waist, where it circles and continues down the front of her thighs, circling the knees, then down the shins, finally coming to a rest around both her ankles. Leaning in, he studies the rope. It is delicate, but strong. Not nylon or polyester, with a texture almost like silk. The pattern it weaves down her torso is intricate, a series of braided knots and twists, reminding him of sailor's knots or Boy Scout badge earners. Rising to his full height, he wraps his index fingers and thumbs around the victim's wrist, holding his other fingers taut and away, almost like she were contaminated meat. Slowly, he pulls her wrists down, toward the floor. And slowly, her body rises up a few inches. He repeats this several times, a twinge of guilt hitting the bottom of his spine. Grim images of marionettes parade through his head, and he pushes them away. Silently, he apologizes to Charlotte. It is common practice in law enforcement to disconnect oneself from the victim and the scene, analyzing it as if it were a cold, dead frog in a metal pan, skin split down the middle. Goren was guilty of this practice as well; sometimes he felt it necessary to make it through the day without ending up in an institution. But, occasionally, he allowed himself to be reminded that these victims were people, with lives and families and people who loved them, and today, he let that fact slip in. Once more, he repeated the action, listening to the whisper of the rope against the metal rings. Finally, he understood.

"Eames, take a look at this."

She quickly excuses herself from the conversation with Mahoney and slides in besides Goren, leaning over him to get a better look at the rope.

_Honeysuckle._

"What is it?"

"It's um…r-rope. But not your typical rope. This rope is…special. It's not strong enough to restrain or hold things down. It's manufactured for um, "looks" rather than…function. But watch what happens when I do this."

_Sorry, sweetheart. Just one more time._

He lowers her wrists, and Eames' head follows the movement of her body. She looks at him quizzically, not understanding.

"If she keeps her arms pulled down, supporting her body weight, the rope around her neck stays loose. But, if she relaxes her arms, and allows her body weight to respond to gravity…"

Eames finishes for him "…the rope pulls on her neck." She exhales in disbelief. "After hours of holding up her own body weight with just her arms, she got tired. The bastard forced her to strangle herself."

Goren has lost her voice already. He is kneeling below the victim, pointing to the carpet. "See this dust here? Those hooks were not here. He brought them with him. He…he planned this out, painstakingly." Standing and circling around her, he finally finds the source of the blood. Deep gashes cris-cross her back, not deep enough to damage organs, but deep enough to bleed. For hours.

"Detectives." A voice calls from across the room, distracting Eames. "We found this in the toilet." The deputy holds up a black plastic object. Upon stepping closer, Eames pulls an evidence bag from her pocket and extends it to him. He drops it in, and she brings it to her face. A stud finder. Her mind drifts briefly to a joke her sister had made a few months back, while she and Eame's sat in the living room, the sound of her husband renovating the study into a nursery above them. Natalie had picked up a similar device from the coffee table and handed it to Eames, joking that maybe if she brought it to a bar, she could go home with a man instead of files and paperwork. She rolled her eyes inwardly, and then turned to her partner, who is still examining the victim's wounds. As she walks the new found evidence over to him, she sees his arm shoot out, latching onto the arm of the nearest CSU investigator.

"Tweezers." He added as an afterthought "Um..Please?"

The investigator eyes him before reaching into a tool bag to retrieve a pair of thin, pointed tweezers. Goren takes them and slowly, as if diffusing a bomb, inserts them into a large wound on the victim's back. Pulling back, she sees his eyes go wide. _He's found the Cracker Jack prize_, she muses. Frantically, he searches his pocket for a baggie. Cursing quietly, he almost didn't notice when Eames held a bag out to him. He wipes the tips of the tweezers against the sides of the bag, being sure to capture his prize. "Got something?"

"A fiber. I can't tell what it is…it just smells like b-blood. We'll have to get it to the lab." Gently, he takes the bags from Eames' hands and politely asks an investigator to forward them to the lab. Goren slinks around her, back to the front of the victim, to examine the complicated rope pattern. He resists the urge to run his fingers over the rope's surface, noting that there had to be fingerprints somewhere in those twists and turns. This pattern is…incredible, even beautiful. He hears the click of Eames' cell phone closing, and he crashes back to earth.

"That was the Captain. The family is on their way from Connecticut, he wants us there to question them."

Straightening himself, he takes one last look at Charlotte, annoyed at being pulled away from his examination. He allows Eames to extend the typical goodbye, here's our number, call us if you find anything formalities, while he focused his attention on one of the photographers. Being careful not to startle this one, he gently reaches out and touches her elbow.

"E-excuse me, ma'am? I'm uh…gonna need some close-ups of this rope pattern, i-if you don't mind." He fumbles with his binder, snatching a card from one of its pockets and extending it to her. He gestures with his still-gloved pinky. "Here's my email address at the Plaza. If you could email them when you get back to your office, I'd be very grateful." He hoped his dark eyes conveyed a pleading look. The photographer dipped her head in agreement, a soft "Yes sir" escaping her lips before bringing her head back up. Goren thought he saw her eyes linger at his lips before connecting with his eyes, and he felt the heat rise in his cheeks before he chided himself and slipped away. Eames was close behind him as he charged for the elevator, snapping his gloves off.

Once in the SUV, Eames turned to her partner, intent on inquiring about his interest in the way the ropes were tied. She caught a glimpse of him, one leg over the other, scribbling furiously in his binder.

She'd lost him already.

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	2. Bullpen

The roar of phones ringing, people squawking and papers shuffling assaulted his brain, ruining his concentration. His fingers twitched on the surface of his desk, and his eyes burned from the light of the computer screen. He'd been staring at it far too long, and he took an opportunity to observe his partner, on the phone with Rodgers in an attempt to find out when the body would arrive at her office. She caught him looking at her, and raised her eyebrows, eyes wide, as if to say "Blah blah blah, but when is the body gonna get there?" Goren smirked at her and turned back to his computer, frustrated with the search engine's results to his query. Hunching over, the clicking of the keyboard masked the sound of his Captain slithering up behind him.

"Whatcha got there Goren?"

He jerked backward, nearly braining himself on Deakin's chin. Embarrassed, he slid the cursor over toward the "x" button at the top of his browser screen, but it was too late. "BDSM sites? Sexy Dominatrix, only a phone call away? Goren, I know your dance card is a bit empty, but at _work _man?"

Flustered, he closed the internet window and stood, hastily gathering his things. "It's f-for the case. The r-rope pattern on that girl's b-body, it was…um…" Godammit, he hated his stutter. And being caught like a teenager with his hand down his pants wasn't helping. "The rope pattern was very…complicated. It wasn't a rush job, and he was focused m-more on the way it looked, then how it _held._ I'm trying to find references to his m-method of tying her up, but all I get is a smattering of porn websites and 1-800 therapy numbers."

Eames' ears pricked at their conversation and, after snickering to herself over her partner's boyish embarrassment, suddenly chimed in. "Here's something, Goren." Relieved to be excused from his conversation with the Captain, Goren glided over to Eames' side of the desk, peering over her shoulder. "It's called Club Violet, located in Lower Manhattan. Here, see?" She turned the computer screen toward him, if only to lessen his heavy presence behind her. It worked. He stood and tilted the screen up, scanning the website for useful information. "It lists itself as a private, member's only club and caters to the quote 'darker desires of Manhattan's elite sexual connoisseurs'. Well, that can mean only one thing." Her snarky comment came complete with a roll of her eyes.

Goren noted the site's address and flopped down at his desk, bringing it up on his own computer. Deakins had managed to make his way over to Eames' desk, and as she brought him up to speed on where they stood regarding the case, Goren minimized the browser window and brought up the internal search engine, typing in the club's address. "It's listed as belonging to a…um…DeVita Divine, she's also the club's top act, her next show is tonight at 9." He flicked his eyes over to his partner. She knew what was coming. "Got any plans tonight, Eames?"

Sighing loudly, she gave a toss of her hair and sputtered "Well, I _guess_ I can put my plans to meet Mr. Right and elope to Vegas on hold. Just for tonight."

Deakins crossed his arms. "Can't you just hit the library or something?"

"Well, this woman can possibly identify this style of rope usage, as well as clue us in to any suspicious or violent patrons of her…establishment."

Deakins uncrossed his arms and stalked off toward his office. "You can clock your hours for the night, but I'd better not see a parking lot slip on your expense report. I've got enough with the Chief of D's breathing down my neck over this one; he doesn't need to know I'm paying my detectives to visit sex joints." With that, he closed the door to his office, still in an obvious huff.

Eames glared at her partner from across the desk. "You owe me a slice of pizza from Gino's for this one. And I mean the good Gino's not that knock off down the street."

Goren snickered as he lifted his jacket off the back of his chair and slid it over his massive shoulders. "If we get a solid lead on this, I'll get you a slice of pizza _and_ a cannoli. Pick you up at eight?"

Her hand dropped from her chin onto the desk, with a look that said "You know better than that."

"Right. See you in front of my place at eight."

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	3. Establishment

Purple neon washed the building in an asphyxiated glow. Faint bass notes could be heard pumping through the brick and barely reached the street outside. Goren stuck his arm out at his partner's waist level, allowing a passing cab to charge by before trotting across the street. _Soccer mom arm hold _she smirks to herself. Throwing a glance in each direction, she trotted after him. Well, trotted as best she could in the shoes she wore. Eames figured that since the club was "member's only" there would be a dress code in place. So, she'd worn wedges, the most comfortable of her heel collection. When it turned out that they had to park eight blocks from the club, she regretted her decision. Dark jeans and a red tank top completed her look; after all, she was _working_. Her partner had opted for a similar outfit, a black button down shirt, dark wash jeans and his dress shoes. She found it odd that she'd never noticed how…fashionable…her partner could be at times.

He turned to face Eames; impatiently waiting as she did her little girl skip across the filthy street. What had possessed her to wear those shoes? He then thought that sneakers probably weren't allowed inside, and any woman who lived in New York knew better to wear flat sandals when walking through the streets. He smiled at his partner's innate sensibility. When she reached him, he turned and found himself inches from a man as tall as him, perhaps even taller, with a goatee and black, sneering eyes.

"Member's card?" he growled.

Goren playfully patted his pockets, and then gave Eames a helpless look. "Well, I-I seem to have forgotten my card at home. Will you accept…this?" His badge was once again cupped in his hand, holding it close so the large man could make out the lettering.

The bouncer reached into his back pocket, his eyes never leaving Goren's badge. He eyes the bouncer suspiciously, watching his hand move like a cat ready to pounce on a mouse. His shoulders slumped slightly and relaxed when the man brought forth a small white card. "You can find any and all licensing and permit information from this man, our attorney. You'll see that everything is in order." He flicked the card outward, pinching it between his index and middle finger, toward Goren. "Sorry you woke up a judge."

Goren tilted his head, not quite sure what was happening. Eames stepped forward, her small frame making a space between the two large men. "We're not here to bust up the place." Her statement rearranged his thoughts into an understanding of what was happening here. He took the lead again

"We're here to see a…um…M-Miss Divine. We think she may have relevant information regarding a case that we're working." The bouncer seemed to relax a little as well. He checked his watch, squinting at the face in the dim light. "She's started her demonstration already. You're welcome to wait at the bar until she finishes." There was an apologetic tone to his statement, and Goren dipped his head in thanks. Eames scurried in the door behind him, not quite sure what to expect from a place that catered to sexual connoisseurs.

One step into the doorway and Goren stopped, letting his eyes adjust to the wall of darkness stretched out in front of him. Eames bumped into him lightly and let forth a curse. When his eyes didn't adjust to the light, he realized that it was because there _was_ a wall in front of him. Looking to his right, he found an opening and timidly placed his foot in front of him, _left, right, left, wall. _To his left, a merciful source of light, purple light.

_High school._

_Yearbook squad darkroom._

_Hands on her thighs, covering enveloping swallowing her thighs._

_Jenny. No. Jamie._

Quickly he steps into the light; the club opens up before him, a large rectangular room, sectioned off periodically. Eames emerges behind him. "Who the hell built this place, Picasso?" she grumbles. Fascinated by the activity in front of him he absently mumbles "It's um, so people passing by can't see in."

"Or people coming in can get injured."

He grinned to himself "Haven't you ever been in a high school darkroom?"

"No, I was too busy practicing my cheer routines and having a life."

Her sarcasm washes over him and falls to the floor, unnoticed. Goren's observant nature is not serving him well at the moment, too many sights to drink in, analyze, pick apart. Leather and velvet clad occupants whoosh past him, a sea of dark water made of dark people. He blinks his eyes and shakes his head, attempting to clear his line of vision to find the bar. He spots it lined up across the wall to his left and makes a break for it, his huge frame easily parting the sea. The sound of Eames' apologies don't reach his ears and he seeks out a barstool and quickly occupies it, relieved to be free from the chaos. Eames slides in beside him, her eyes wide, even frightened. "I saw some pretty fucked up things in Vice…this here takes the cake" she mutters as a couple passes them, a thick black cord leading from the man's neck to the woman's hand.

Goren forces himself to turn away from the club, toward the bartender. His eyes widen once he spots her. She is a pretty brunette, young, barely old enough to tend bar, legally anyways. A bizarre apparatus encircles her neck, similar to a brace worn by victims of car accidents and broken necks, only…_taller._ Instead of the typical blue and white medical appearance, this one was somehow covered in shiny vinyl, with bright red piping across the top and bottom. Goren is reminded of a documentary he saw recently on National Geographic depicting women of the Kayan tribe of Burma and Thailand, their famous "neck coils" giving their necks an unnatural appearance of length.

Engrossed in his assessment, he doesn't notice when the girl speaks to him. He blinks his eyes, still wide as dinner plates. "Sorry...um, what?"

"What can I get for you, Sir?" She notices the bewildered detective staring at her, but makes no mention of it. She figures he is uncomfortable enough, and wonders what a straight laced guy like him is doing in a place like this.

"I'll have…um…" he glances at Eames, searching for a disapproving look. He finds none. "…a Glenlivet, neat please."

Eames counters "Dirty vodka martini, light on the Vermouth, heavy on the juice." She turns to find her partner staring at her, eyebrow cocked. She tilts her head playfully. "What? I won't tell if you won't." The clink of glasses against wood draws her attention back to the bar, and she lifts her drink. Nibbling thoughtfully on an olive, she rotates her bar stool to face the club. Her eyes fall on a wooden platform a few yards from the bar, built up from the floor and flanked by small steps. _A tiny stage._ Rising up from the platform is a menacing structure, painted black and towering over the inhabitants below.

"Hey, what do they call that 'X' that's on the Confederate flag?"

"S-St. Andrew's Cross."

Strapped to the ironically named device is a young man, his hair stringy with sweat and completely naked, and the orbs of his small ass pink and irritated. Eames lets her eyes drift over to the source of his pain. "That must be our star performer."

Goren follows the direction of his partner's finger, settling on a woman, also on the platform. Her small waist and boisterous curves are exaggerated by the smooth vinyl that is wrapped around her body, occasionally interrupted by metal rimmed eyelets in the fabric. A satin ribbon criss-crosses through the eyelets, weaving a repeated "X" pattern up the center of her back and stopping just below her shoulder blades. Long, thick and very obviously dyed black hair picks up where the garment leaves off, swishing and flowing with her every move. Goren finds himself perched on the edge of his barstool, as if leaning in would somehow make her turn her attention to him.

It works.

Goren sucks in a breath. She is…beautiful. Porcelain skin forms a perfect heart shaped face, her plump lips drenched in red lipstick, her deep set eyes framed by black eyeliner. The dim light in the room makes it impossible to tell what color her eyes are. He prays that they are blue. Just as he starts to scold himself for being distracted, he sees her lips part to speak.

"All right my little piglets, are we ready for the next lesson?"

The small grouping gathered around the base of the stage all cheer. She now faces completely forward, her hands on her hips. Reaching over to a well placed pegboard, she snatches a medieval looking tool from it, and begins smacking it ends across her palm.

"_This_ is a cat-o-nine tails. It is a very basic, very effective, very dependable tool associated with this lifestyle. This will be your best friend" she gestures backwards toward the helpless man "and _his_ worst enemy." A collective chuckle rises from the crowd. Before Goren can blink, she whirls around and brings the whip crashing down on the young man's shoulders. The sickening _crack_ can be heard from across the room, followed by a weak yelp.

"Did you all see how I did that?" she inquires. "The cat-o-nine is best maneuvered using a rolling motion with the wrists. It is designed to deliver several hits, one after the other, in a flogging motion. Because of this, it is best to use this item with as little force as possible, so as not to injure your wrist. More pressure and force can be applied to deliver a harder hit, but this will require greater effort on the part of your wrist. Therefore, when using it in this manner, it is best, _for you,_ if you space your strikes out evenly, giving yourself plenty of time to rest in between. If you are looking for something that delivers a hard impact, each time, with little effort, I suggest using the horse crop I demonstrated earlier. This tool is designed for _quantity,_ not quality_._ Any questions?"

"Can we see it again?" yells one bold patron.

The woman giggles. "I suppose so." She struts around to the other side of the massive wooden structure holding her victim captive, to address his face. "Do you hear that, pig? They want to see more. Can your little candy ass handle it?"

Goren couldn't hear the man's response, but it must have been affirmative. She glides back to her original position and, with a wink to the crowd, begins her assault on the man's shoulders.

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

_Crack._

The crowd roars, cheering louder with every hit landed. Goren is hypnotized by the whirling straps of leather, wincing each time they find their mark. His mind races with possible causes for this pathology. Oh sure, the sadism is easy to identify, to explain, to analyze. He's seen it hundreds of time over the years; troubled childhood, lack of self esteem, a need to feel power, and anger. Anger, especially. But to willingly accept…no… to _seek out_ this kind of punishment as an adult? Battered woman suffered a similar pathology, rationalizing to themselves that the beatings are proof of the abuser's love for them. But they don't go seeking it; the rationalization comes as a defense mechanism after years of suffering. No, no, this…he just couldn't wrap his head around.

He barely notices that she has picked up another instrument, this one, instantly recognizable; a bull whip. She pulls the corner of her mouth into a smirk, and narrows her eyes at the crowd. "Now this, ladies and gentlemen..." she strokes the whip affectionately, as if it were a black, coiled kitten "…_this_ you are not ready for. This device is a bull whip. I'm sure you've seen it in movies and on TV, but this little beauty right here…is not to be _fucked with."_

With that, she lowers herself down each step, purposefully, and the crowd parts for her, slack jawed and wide eyed. She brings herself around to the front of the little stage, still in her original position, but down on the floor of the club. In one swift movement she uncoils the menacing length of leather and brings its tip crashing down to the floor. She waits while the crowd gathers their composure. Then, quick as lightening, she hurls her arm backward, then forward, sending the length of leather flying across the room, landing between her companion's shoulders. The cry that escaped the man's lips went straight to Goren's ears and down to his gut, a wave of nausea traveling with it. Goren is sure he can see a thin line of blood trickling down from where the whip made contact. With her second strike, his fear is confirmed. Her admirers are stunned for a moment, and then slowly break into wild applause. She gives an over-the-top, exaggerated bow, and claps with them. "Remember, ladies and gentleman, next week we begin our installment on simple bondage knots, so I want to see you all here with your practice rope next Friday, okay?" The crowd cheers and claps in agreement, dispersing slowly. Goren notices two men on the stage, releasing the beaten man from his restraints. He crumbles to the floor, curling in a weak fetal position.

Goren snatches the arm of the passing bartender, her eyes wide with surprise. "Is he o-okay? Should we call someone?" The girl looks at him, confused, before leaning around him to follow his finger. She turns her eyes back toward him and cocks her eyebrow. "Um _yeah,_ he's fine. He's just in sub-space. He'll come out of it in a few minutes."

"S-sub-space?"

"Buddy, I think you and your girlfriend want the frat joint down the street. You might find it more suited to your tastes."

Eames' eyes go wide, and her mouth opens to hurl an equally bitchy comment back at the little snot, when the murmur of vinyl against vinyl slithers up from behind her. "Felicia! That's not very cordial. You wouldn't want me to page Johnny, would you?"

Felicia lowers her face, as much as she can, and whispers "No, Madame."

"Well then, I suggest you apologize and get back to wiping bottles." Eames turns to face the woman speaking, her eyes drifting downward to fully take in the severe nature of her outfit. Eames' figures that the woman can't be any taller than five feet, five feet two at the most, but in six inch spiked stilettos, she easily towers over the petite detective. Simple, classy black stockings snake their way up her legs to disappear under her vinyl skirt. At this point, Eames is surprised the woman isn't donning fishnets like the rest of her patrons. Her analysis is interrupted by a hand coming toward her own.

"My name is DeVita, but you may call me Dee. My bouncer informed me that you and your…um….silent partner here have some questions for me." Eames sticks her hand out and shakes Dee's hand, using her other arm to elbow her partner, who has departed for Outer Space, once again.

Her sharp little elbow brings Goren back to reality. He sees the lips of his partner and the woman moving, but language and words seem to have escaped him for the moment. From outside his body, he sees his hand move toward hers, encircling it slowly. He finally manages to raise his eyes to her face.

_Blue._

_Green._

_Flecks of gold around her iris._

_Christ almighty._

Pain floods his chest, seeping into his ribs and lungs and sternum. Goren realizes he's forgotten to breathe. Sucking in a huge breath, he manages to get out half of his typical introduction before Dee smiles.

"Yes. Your partner mentioned that." His eyes follow the hand that's dropped from his, watching her slide it into her waistband. Retrieving a small black object, she holds it ear level and pushes a button. Almost instantly, a smaller blonde woman appears at her side, holding out a cigarette to Dee and flicking a lighter. The flame illuminates her face, shadows dancing fiendishly across her skin. Smoke drifts lazily from her lips, starting and stopping with each word.

"Brenda, please make sure Booth 7 is free."

The blonde nods and skulks away, almost as if Dee's request had been a reprimand. Goren barely manages to study the black object before it's tucked away again. He glances away, fearful of Dee catching his eyes in their misbehaved pursuit of her curves.

_Focus._

_Idiot._

As he comes to, Goren notices that his partner has risen from her seat and is halfway across the bar, directly behind Dee. He takes a few steps before realizing that he's left his binder with the photos on the bar. Swooping backward, he snatches the binder and scuttles after Dee and his partner, humiliated by his school boy behavior. He prays that Dee hasn't noticed his adolescent fumbling.

It seems that prayers are on his side tonight.

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	4. Gratification

I hope everyone enjoys the next installment of my story. To TigerGorenRocks, thank you for your kind review. I haven't quite figured out how to send messages on this thing, so I'll just thank you here and hope that you keep up with my story =)

And to everyone else, I'm still deciphering the lingo on this site. For instance, I have no idea what "shipping", "fluff" "prompts" or "A/N" means, so again, I leave it up to you to place your own labels on this thing. Rated T for language and unconventional sexual situations, possibly "M" after the case is solved. Thanks again and enjoy!

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Goren slides into the booth beside his partner. Aside from the voluptuous curtain framing the wall that the booth is set in, it looks like any other restaurant table. Dee slides in across from them, her skirt squeaking slightly against the plastic, padded seat. The device is in her hand, and Goren notices that she gives it two clicks instead of just one. "Detectives, I'm sorry you had to wait for me this evening. I know you must be very busy keeping our city safe. To that note, let's skip the small talk. Please, tell me how I can be of help to you?"

Eames looks to her partner. It was his idea, after all; she still had no clue where he was going with all of this. He'd spent the last ten minutes at 1PP frantically trying to print the pictures from the crime scene, then cursing over the pirated version of Photoshop Lewis had brought him. Finally, he'd managed to cut the victim's face and "private" bodily areas out of the pictures, leaving only detailed shots of the rope.

Goren fishes in his binder for the shots he'd doctored just before leaving the Plaza that evening. He pulled them out, one by one, giving them each a 5 or 6th glance-over before finally revealing them to Dee. She did not touch them, instead, she waited for Goren to hand her a photo before taking it and examining the subject matter.

Before Goren can speak, Brenda has appeared at their table, their previous drink orders balanced precariously on her tray, along with a pink colored martini. She hands each drink to its owner, and then looks to Dee, silent. She waves her hand and whispers "Dismissed."

Waiting until the waitress is gone, Goren points to the photo in Dee's hand. "These are from a crime scene…of a m-murder victim. This rope pattern was discovered covering her body. Here, you can see the apparatus holding her off of the floor. And um, h-here, you see the intricate way it way woven down her torso. Now, this kind of thing took, um, time and s-skill. This killer was not in a rush. It seemed that he was more concerned with the….aesthetics…of the rope, rather than how well it bound his victim. The way he tied the ropes that actually killed her was…simple…um, juvenile, really. He spent more time on the rope covering her…um…breasts, and stomach, which had no part in her death than he did on the rope around her neck. I'm not ashamed to admit, Ms. Divine, that in all my years of investigating homicides, I have never seen anything even close to this."

"Mmm. That's because this is _kinbaku,_ Mr. Goren; more commonly referred to as _shibari_ in the West. This style of rope bondage is strictly Japanese, with some artistic license taken by the participants here in America. Although I've never heard of a case where it was used to murder someone, it's certainly possible."

"S-shibari?"

"Yes. It's a style of bondage that is both simple and complicated. As you can see, it only involves rope, these hooks here must have been part of the 'artistic license' I mentioned. Rather than nylon or polyester blends commonly used here in United States, shibari uses only vegetable or linen based rope. This gives the rope a smooth, pleasing appearance. The knots used, however, are highly sophisticated and predominately designed for beauty, rather than restraint. This is a highly involved school of bondage…I myself am educated only in the most basic configurations associated with this style."

Goren was fascinated. If words could be seen, he'd cling to every one that escaped her lips. Typically, he was accustomed to tricks and psychological slights of hand to coax words from his suspects. This one could not be restrained from speaking. He liked it.

Eames picked up where her partner fell silent. "Ms. Divine, are you aware of any of your…'customers'…who take an interest in this 'style' of bondage?" For someone who claimed not to be knowledgeable on the subject, she sure could go on and on about it. If the killer had learned this type of rope tying from anyone, it had to be this woman. She obviously enjoyed teaching others about this weird lifestyle, which could be clearly seen from her little class Eames had witnessed.

Dee's eyes seemed to drift off briefly, before she shook her head slowly. "No, Ms. Eames. Large portions of my clientele are here to learn, or to meet others who share their interests. They wouldn't be educated in this type of advanced bondage. My more…seasoned…associates are all involved with the club, and I've known them all for years. They couldn't possibly be capable of this kind of act."

"Well, what about your professional associates? Have you ever seen any of them use these types of knots?"

"Mmm…I believe Johnny may know a few examples, but unless he researched it further, he only knows what I taught him. And to be frank, Ms. Eames, shibari is not something you spend years studying, only to conceal it behind closed doors. If he'd learned anything further about this style, I'm sure he would have flaunted it on his Felicia."

Goren jumped in "About Felicia…the, um, 'thing' around her neck? What is the purpose of that?"

Dee gave a little smile, privately glad that Goren had joined the conversation again. "Felicia has a…problem…with self-esteem. She lacks confidence. This caused her to slouch, and to avoid making eye contact with those who spoke to her. The posture collar is part of her training, to improve her way of standing and of speaking to people. You'll notice that she only averted her eyes while being scolded. That is a vast improvement from the state she was in when she and Johnny joined my establishment a few years ago."

Annoyed, Eames attempted to turn the conversation back into an interrogation, instead of Bondage 101. "And who is Johnny? Is he heavily involved with your club?"

"Johnny is my DJ, as well as an occasional bouncer, and general roustabout. He spends his nights off here, visiting with Felicia while she works, helping with inventory, scheduling classes, and whatever else I ask of him."

"So he's your slave?" Eames figured if she was to get through to this woman, she would have to think and speak like her.

Dee's eyes went wide. "Certainly not! For one thing, Johnny is a Dom, and would never submit to anyone. The duties that he performs here are on a strict employer to employee basis."

"But you do…uh…'keep' slaves? Is that right Ms. Divine? Like Brenda for instance, I noticed that she responds to the little clicker you keep in your waistband. Rather quickly, in fact. Is she under your training?" The hierarchy of this establishment intrigued Goren. He'd seen glimpses of the BDSM lifestyle in pop culture, when his TV remote accidentally landed on a music video or he passed a naughty clothing shop downtown. But he never had any idea that it was this involved. The dedication that these people put forth regarding their roles was…admirable.

Dee smiled again, affectionately. "Yes. Brenda is under my supervision, in an effort to better herself and…break…some of the less appealing habits she'd developed in her youth."

A faint buzzing noise interrupts Dee, and she stops speaking. It's clear that her dominant persona is only active when addressing her subordinates. Otherwise, her social interaction is quite typical, a fact that surprises Goren. Smirking to himself, he realizes that maybe he isn't as open minded as he once thought.

Eames is elbowing him again. Irritated, he snaps his head toward her to find that she is attempting to push him out of the booth, her ear sewn to her cell phone. Goren obliges, and slides out to allow her passage. She stalks away, one hand holding the phone, the other plugging her ear against the pounding of the industrial music drifting through the club.

Goren seats himself again, and takes this opportunity to drift away from the questioning to find out more about the lifestyle that this woman has immersed herself in. "You mentioned that Brenda had some…um….unappealing habits, that she needed to be broken from."

"Yes, that's right."

"What kind of…'habit'…could possibly warrant this kind of punishment? I mean, people find things that they don't like about themselves, they make an effort to correct it. They don't typically…uh…hand someone a whip and say 'Here, please fix me'."

Dee is entranced now, and flattered by this shy detective's interest in what she does. Leaning forward, she locks eyes with Goren. "Brenda is a special case. She comes from money, and privilege. Raised mostly by her nannies, and an only child, Brenda lacked discipline, and her every whim was catered to, either by her father or the people paid to care for her. She never learned the meaning of structure, obedience, or selflessness. Her sub ordinance to me is her effort to correct theses behaviors, and eventually, become more of a whole person."

"And her…motivation…for following your commands…her reward if you will…is it sexual?" Goren couldn't stop himself. No sooner were the words out of his mouth, he wanted to suck, _inhale_ them back into his lungs. What the fuck was he thinking? This was unbecoming of a professional member of the NYPD, of a human being, for Christ's sakes. What business of his was this?

Dee wasn't fazed in the slightest. "Actually, Mr. Goren, it is the _lack_ of sexual contact that makes her training effective." He cocks an eyebrow at her, confused. "The masters that Brenda answered to before me all became exasperated with her behavior. She concerned herself more with…um…'getting to the good part' if you will, then the actual modification of her behavior. She did what she was told, said what she was expected to say, but once out of her master's eyesight, she reverted back to her old ways. It was only after she came to me and learned that no matter how well behaved she was, she wasn't going to receive gratification, that she truly focused on her training. Neither of us are lesbians, Mr. Goren, or even bisexual. Once she has completed her training in a manner satisfactory to me, I will release her to seek out a proper master, who will gratify her in ways he sees fit."

It was then that Eames appeared table side. He was never more annoyed to see his partner than that moment. Her face was flush, and she was definitely upset about something. Concern replaced his exasperation "What's wrong Eames?"

"That was Natalie. My brother-in-law is out of town and she's running a high fever. She doesn't want Nathan to catch it, so I have to go pick him up and watch him for the night." Goren slid out of the booth and stood beside her, his hand encircling her elbow.

"C'mon, I'll walk you to the car."

"You're staying here?"

He pulled her a few steps away from the table and whispered "I'm starting to develop a profile on our perp, but I need a little while longer with this woman. I can't wrap my head around these…these motivations, Eames. I need to talk with her a little longer, and try to come up with something definite."

Eames gave him her look, the one that said she knew he was up to something, but she didn't know enough to nail him on it. Frustrated, she nodded in agreement, if only to avoid a fight and get to her nephew as soon as possible. He let the look wash over him, also anxious to avoid a fight. They would work it out over coffee tomorrow. They always did. Dee chimed in from her seat at the booth.

"There's no need Detective. I'll make sure Ms. Eames is looked after." The device was in her hand again, and with three clicks, Brenda was at her side, waiting. Goren took the chance to examine this bizarre, if effective manner of calling her assistant to her side. He leans in, tilting his head toward Brenda. He notices a thick nylon strap around her neck, with a small, black box attached to it.

_Jesus. _

_It's a shock collar._

_The Dobermans at the Academy wear those things._

"Please tell Brute I would like to speak with him."

The team collectively glanced at Dee, unsure of whom this "Brute" was, and how he was going to look after Eames. Before the question can reach their vocal chords, the large bouncer from earlier is beside the table, peering anxiously at Dee.

"Please escort Ms. Eames to her vehicle. If you do a good job, I'll give you a special reward once we close for the night."

Instantly the bouncer's eyebrows sprang up, and with the enthusiasm of a boy bound for his first day of school, he places himself next to Eames "Right this way, Ms. Eames."

She glances at her partner, unsure and perhaps a little afraid. Goren gives a shooing motion with his hands, assuring her that all is well. Timidly, and never taking her eyes off the bouncer, Eames begins to walk toward the door of the club.

Goren slides back into the booth, trying to remember where their conversation had left off. "I think I understand now."

"What's that, Detective?"

"One click means you want a cigarette, two clicks means you want a drink, and three clicks means you have a miscellaneous request that you need to voice in person."

She throws her head back and laughs. Of all the things to understand, he picks this one. "Yes, Mr. Goren. I believe you've figured out my elusive training methods."

He gestures towards the door "And the bouncer, his special reward for doing your bidding…?"

She gives a knowing smile, and holds her foot out for his examination. "You see these ridiculously uncomfortable shoe's I'm wearing?" Goren nods, slightly distracted by the sight of her leg. "Well, after I've worn them for eight hours, Brute like to massage my aching feet…with his tongue."

It's Goren's turn to laugh, and he puts his binder on the seat next to him, settling in for what promises to be a very long, very intriguing conversation.

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	5. Sickness

**A/N: Yay, I learned what that means! The books Bobby looks through are made up titles and fictional authors, the information contained is quoted from /sadistic_personality  
Thanks again for everyone's kind reviews, and yes, this is my first Fan Fic, I swear. Enjoy!**

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Even through the glass of the conference room doors, Goren could hear the shrieking of phones, those awful fucking _phones. _Christ, did they ever stop? His head pounded with the fury that only a fine scotch hangover could bring, and his stomach heaved at the mere thought of smells. He'd sequestered himself inside Conference Room 2, away from the phones and coffee and bagels and squeaky voiced secretary. Eames was late coming in this morning, so he'd been stuck with the pleasant task of visiting Rodgers in her stainless steel cave a few floors below. He'd scuttled into the exam room, eyes down and hankie over his mouth. It was all he could too to keep from heaving into the nearest container. Rodgers had given him a sideways look, offering to call a friend and set up a lunch hour appointment for some IV fluids at a nearby clinic. Goren refused, stating that he'd simply had a bad club sandwich for dinner last night. Rodgers gave an exaggerated nod of her head, not wanting to push the issue, but not believing him either. She expressed her sympathy in the form of a murder victim who remained under the sheet for the duration of her report.

"Well, your first suspicions were correct, Goren. She did die as a result of strangulation. Typical signs of petechial hemorrhaging in the eyes, and she also had an overwhelming buildup of lactic acid in her forearms and bicep muscle; I biopsied them based on your description of the scene."

"W-what does that mean?" His angry skull wouldn't allow for the connecting of dots today.

"It means she exerted these muscles in a major way, for an extended period of time, not just doing bicep curls and bench pressing. She also had signs of dehydration; I'd say she was strung up like that for at least six hours before she finally gave."

"What about the wounds across her back?" He had to get out of there.

"The wounds were a little more interesting. They were jagged and varied in depth from one end to the other. The outside edges, where they began, were shallower than the middle of the wounds. Our killer must have been using a very dull knife and changed the amount of pressure caused by his hand while delivering the wounds."

"You said the wounds were jagged…what if he didn't use something as sharp as a knife?" Perhaps his head would allow some thought to break through. "What if he used something…um…softer? Not as solid as metal? Could that account for the irregular breaks in the skin?"

Rodgers seemed to ponder this for a moment. "I'm not sure what you could be talking about, Goren."

Jesus, someone hand him a megaphone. "L-like a piece of fabric? Say, leather for instance?"

"Hmm..I hadn't thought of that. I suppose if several pieces of leather were bound together, and the hit was delivered at an extremely high velocity…yes…yes that could work."

_Like a bullwhip._

The wheels in Rodgers head spun wildly now, and she phoned her assistant, inquiring about the fibers found in the wounds. The results weren't in yet. Rodgers, sensing Goren's unusual and obvious discomfort with his surroundings, shooed him away with promises of a phone call once the fiber tests were in.

Goren tore out of there like a man on fire, to the safety, the neutrality of the elevator. Letting his body fall against the back of the metal box, he watched the little lights blink on and off, and thought of the pulsing lights in the club last night.

He had stayed far too late, and had far too much to drink, but couldn't manage to tear himself away from the conversation, away from _her._ He'd practically drilled her about her subordinates, what kind of backgrounds they came from, their childhoods, their daily lives. He understood the concept of guilt and self hatred, a need to change. But corporal punishment as a means of said change? Dee had explained that it was more than getting spanked by someone in heels and leather. It was about discipline, and obedience. It was about relinquishing control to another human being; that was the ultimate goal of the lifestyle. She stated that most of her subordinates lacked structure in their lives. Brought up to be lazy, spoiled and accountable for nothing, they were forced to face their shortcomings beneath her boot, from the business end of her horse crop, on their knees begging for release. A few of her subordinates, however, possessed too much structure in their lives. Influential men, who decided how to spend billions of dollars, who to hire and who to fire, which direction the Earth spun, found relief in turning over their reins, their _lives_ to someone else. Dee found these men to be especially eager to please, to follow any ridiculous command she uttered. These men were…her favorite.

Goren dared not ask her about her background, what had led her to this. He feared the places she came from; his knowledge gleaned from years of case working told him that she had to be abused, neglected, or just…_sick._ He didn't want to think that about her. This intelligent, well spoken woman with the slightest hint of a charming Southern accent couldn't be the same breed of twisted individuals he lived to put away.

The _ding_ of the elevator finding its mark snapped Goren back to reality. He lumbered out of the elevator, dreading the bullpen and its vicious sounds. He arrived at his desk to find his partner, looking as bad as he felt. "What happened to you?"

"Colicky baby's first night away from Mommy. What's your excuse?" she quipped. Eames had an idea of what was wrong with him, but she decided to see what he would come up with.

"Bad uh…club sandwich." Continuing his lie, he flopped down in his chair and rubbed his temples.

"What'd you find out from Rodgers?"

"She confirmed my suspicions. Extreme exertions on her biceps, death by strangulation, still no results on the fibers from the wounds." Goren felt a twinge in his stomach, one he recognized as hunger. "Feel like Chinese?"

"I feel like whatever you're buying." Humor had returned to her, full force. Goren picked up the phone and handed it to her. Human conversation was not something he could handle at this point. "Your usual?" she asked.

"No. Get me um…fried rice. And eggrolls." Lots and lots of bread and rice; good for soaking up the swirling tempest of bile in his gut.

He watched Eames speaking into the receiver, his thoughts drifting back to last night. They'd finally wrapped up their conversation around two a.m., when the club was closing. They had laughed when she tried to rise from the booth, her vinyl skirt sticking to the plastic seat.

_I bet my hands would stick to that skirt, too._

She'd walked him to the door, her stilettos abandoned back at the table. Her actual height belied her profession, barely reaching his chest. He'd stuck out his hand to her; she'd stuck out her arms and encircled him, taking him by surprise. She immediately withdrew and apologized, stating that she forgot how stand-offish New Yorkers were, and that her Southern method of exchanging goodbyes was often frowned upon here, up north. Goren blushed fiercely, and barely managed to stammer out that he wasn't displeased, just taken aback. He'd caught a whiff of her floral perfume, the scent intoxicating him more than a shelf's worth of Glenlivet ever could.

_Jasmine? No, too heavy.  
Honeysuckle? No, that's was Eames'.  
Gardenia? Maybe, but there was a hint of water to hers.  
What was that fucking smell?_

The recollection of that maddening aroma caused an uncomfortable shift in his trousers. Mortified, he grabbed the edge of his desk and pulled his chair toward it, hiding his shame beneath the mahogany shelf. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? He decided then that he'd never go back to that place, to that spellbinding woman and her blue-green eyes. A girl was dead, and it was up to him and his partner to introduce her killer to the needle, to bring peace to her final rest. The disgrace of his adolescent distractions nearly brought the sea of bile in his stomach hurtling toward the surface.

The click of the phone finding its nest chimed perfectly with the clicking of his keyboard. "Lunch will be here in 30 or 45 minutes. I hope it's free after that point" Eames scoffed. She craned her neck around her computer screen to find her partner absorbed in his. "What are you getting into now?"

"I'm um…trying to locate some books…recommended to me by a…reliable…source." He gestured toward the high-pitched secretary. "You think if I offer to bring Brittany coffee for a week, she'll run to the library for me?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go slather on some of that Goren charm and see what happens?" she joked. Startled, she watched her partner rise from his desk and stalk toward the unsuspecting secretary.

He intended to do just that.

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Goren pushes the remainder of his rice aside, his library spoils spread out before him, alphabetically. A double mochachino, half decaf with extra whipped cream every day for a week seemed a small price to pay for his haul. Groping desperately for a stack of sticky notes, he scanned chapters of interest, marking the pages he intended to copy and highlight. _The Sadistic Personality _by Dr. William Sycthewas the first of his conquests. Though a bit dated, it covered basic knowledge of sadists and their motives.

_**The Sadistic Personality Disorder is characterized by a pattern of gratuitous cruelty, aggression, and demeaning behaviors which indicate the existence of deep-seated contempt for other people and an utter lack of empathy. **_

_**Unlike psychopaths, they rarely use physical force in the commission of crimes. Rather, their aggressiveness is embedded in an interpersonal context and is expressed in social settings, such as the family or the workplace**__._

_But this one did. He forced his way into Charlotte's apartment and coerced her into lying still while he tied her up, perhaps using a weapon to intimidate her._

Snatching a pen from across the table, Goren scrawled in his binder. _Taking control vs. losing control, likes to watch? Forced victim to 'technically' kill herself. No slash and dash. Signs of remorse?_

Goren dropped the pen and rubbed his temples again, the headache crashing about in his skull like an angry bull trapped in a china shop. Bull in a china shop; his mother had called him that once. In his clumsy youth he'd sent her favorite vase crashing to the floor, shattering into billions of shards. A cheap little thing, it came filled with the only bouquet his father had ever bought for her. Goren bolted upright in his chair, the memory retreating to the dark corner from which it emerged.

_Mother._

_  
_His mother abused him. Not in the conventional sense…she was overprotective. She controlled his every activity, perhaps breaking a few bodily and sexual boundaries. He…he came to like it. He was aroused by the power his mother exercised over him.

_He's not a true sadist._

Goren bolted out of the conference room, unsure of where to take this lead. At some point, the killer must have sought help for what he considered a disease, a sickness that required…fixing. Sex therapists…that was a start; if the killer looked for help and could find none satisfactory enough to cure his innate desires, he might have rationalized that becoming the sadist, the exact opposite of what he was, would cure him. He resents the power that he allows women to exert over him; he resents his desire to serve them, and be controlled by them. That's why he didn't take control and kill Charlotte. He wanted to watch her lose control! The exact moment when her exhaustion outweighed her will to live. He tore his desk apart, searching for the CSU report from the victim's apartment. Frantically flipping pages, Eames could only stare at her partner, wide eyed and confused, half of an eggroll clutched in her hand.

"What the hell has gotten into you?"

She knew that look. That panicked if-I-could-only-find-this-one-thing look he often displayed when the proverbial light bulb went off over his head. Zero to manic in 5 seconds flat.

"No s-semen found at the scene. Not on Charlotte, not on the floor near her body, not in bathroom. No where!"

Eames, still wide eyed, nodded slowly. "Yeah, that's right. The killer didn't pleasure himself in, on or near the body. Didn't you go over this with Rodgers this morning?"

Frustrated, he slammed his hands down on the desk, drawing the attention of the entire pen. "Don't you see, Eames? He did it, but he didn't _like _it. He performed a sexually motivated crime, with no sex! He went through the motions, but didn't enjoy it, wasn't _invested_ in it! So, what was his motive?"

Realization crept into her head slowly as he spoke. She put her eggroll down and leaned across the desk. "That's a very good question. How do you intend to answer it?"

"S-sex therapists. Our killer might have tried conventional methods of…um…'curing' this problem before resorting to sadism. I'm pulling up a list of sex therapists in the five boroughs. If we start calling now, we should have time to interview anyone who thinks they may have a client with a matching pathology."

Eames gave up all hope of following his train of thought, and merely took her half of the list from him and swept the remains of her lunch into the trash. "What exactly are we looking for again?"

"A patient displaying tendencies toward sexual masochism, desperate to…uh…'cure' them…and boundary issues stemming from the relationship with his m-mother."

She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "Why is it always the mother's fault when it comes to men?"

Goren stopped his frantic page flipping to lock eyes with his sarcastic partner. She'd stepped into familiar and unwelcome territory.

"I-it's because our mothers are our f-first loves."

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The lights of the overpass whizzing past his vision brought his headache to the surface once again. Taking his usual exit, the files lumped carelessly in his passenger seat came unglued, blanketing the floor of his car. Cursing loudly, he pulled into a nearby gas station to salvage the wreckage; a perfect end to a perfect fucking day. The therapist angle had gotten them nowhere; no doctor they had spoken to recalled a patient with masochistic tendencies and a desire to stop them. One therapist remembered a patient who had visited her complaining of masochistic thoughts, but he sought to embrace, not cease them. He put the files back together, being careful not to rearrange anything. Sitting upright, the red neon of the gas station beckoned him.

He shouldn't do it.

He really shouldn't do it.

He was going to do it.

His car alarm chirped obediently as he strolled into the station, going straight for the counter. He knew what he wanted. A bored looking teen sat behind the counter, thumbing through a car magazine.

"Help you mister?"

"A pack of Marlboro Reds and a bottle of Glenlivet."

_Glenlivet.  
Soaking her corset, her stockings, after a drunken slip of the hand.  
Her bell sounding giggle.  
Wonder how scotch tastes when it's licked off of vinyl?_

Goren shook his head violently, causing the teen to eye him suspiciously. "On second thought, better make it Jack Daniels."

He snatched the brown paper bag from the now nervous teen and trudged off to his car, preparing for a long, lonely night with a bottle, a pack of cigarettes and paper.

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	6. Crescendo

**A/N: Well, here's my next installment, I know it jumps from scene to scene, but I found it very hard to drag out a scene involving Bobby sitting around his apartment. Please, please R&R. I like reviews, they are tasty =)  
Enjoy!**

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Goren lumbered, unwillingly, into his Brooklyn apartment, the familiar smells creeping slowly into his nose; old books, cleaning products, and leather. Sure signs of a sad old bachelor, he mused. Carelessly he tosses his binder and the files aside, not caring now if they fell apart. He needed to get to the drink. He entered his kitchen and, without turning on the light, felt around for a tumbler and filled it with ice. The whisky splashed on the counter as he poured it, bringing it to his lips. Scowling, he smacked the glass down on the Formica. The cheap booze was bitter on his scotch spoiled tongue; he cured it with a splash of water and reaching for the cigarettes in his pocket, felt around in the drawers for a lighter. Damn. He must have thrown them out the last time he quit. Annoyed, he turned the knob on his gas stove and leaned over it, grateful for his outdated appliances.

Cigarette lit and whisky diluted, he moved to his couch, shoving files out of the way. He fiddled with his stereo remote absentmindedly, letting the disc changer choose his entertainment. It decided he should listen to Creedence Clearwater Revival, and he does not protest. Opening the autopsy report, he studied it, wincing at the sight of her. Poor girl. It was theorized that the killer entered her apartment while she was at the country club with her parents and friends of the family, the Whitakers. Fingerprints were found around the outside of the window, but no damage was caused to the window upon gaining entry. Traces of chloroform were found around her mouth and nose. She must have started to regain consciousness while he was tying her up, however, because the knots past her waist were looser…more careless. He then beat her into submission, using a chair to hoist her onto the hooks he'd installed while he waited. Footprints were found on her desk chair, again, no leads there. Charlotte was a small girl, and it would not have taken much of a man to lift her a few feet in the air.

_Small statured killer.  
Possible Napoleon complex accounting for aggression in crime._

Frustrated, he turned to his least favorite research tool; the computer. There were no books on shibari to be found at the library, and even if there were, he was far too embarrassed to include them in his list to Brittany. Being branded the department's "whack job" was one thing…the department "pervert", however, he could not face. Scanning past the websites in Japanese, he finally found a website offering pictures of shibari patterns. Slack jawed; he scanned through the pictures, the last one catching his eye. He dove for his coffee table, retrieving the pictures of the victim's torso. He held it up to the computer screen.

_Bingo._

The pattern on the website was described as a _hishi karada_, or rope dress. It consisted of a pattern of diamonds woven down the torso, passing through the genital area and ending at the back of the neck. The killer, however, altered this pattern, adding the wrist ties and skipping the genital bondage. That's why the knots around her knees and ankles were looser. He improvised, changing the pattern to suit his needs. Goren also discovered that the intention of shibari was to cause pleasure to the "bottom" by applying pressure to the breast and genital areas.

_So, he wasn't so concerned with aesthetics and tradition after all._

Engrossed in the tutorial website, Goren slept this way, his face on the keyboard, his fingers wrapped loosely around his now empty glass.

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Angry chirps stirred him from his agitated slumber. Cell phone. He had to get to his cell phone. Faint recollections of gruesome puppets pranced through his skull as he blundered toward his phone. His voice raspy with nicotine, he flipped the unforgiving device open and croaked "Goren."

Her soft voice whispered from across phone lines and boroughs. "It's me, Eames."

"Eames? Christ, what time is it?"

"3 a.m. Goren, they found another one. You need to get over here."

All grogginess left him then. "Godammit. Where?"

As she rattled off the address, Goren scribbled away in his binder. He flipped his phone closed with a promise to be there in half an hour. Staring down at the phone in his hand, he viciously hurled it across the room, listening to the satisfying _smack_ as it hit the wall across from him.

_Less than 48 hours.  
He's gaining steam.  
This fucker isn't going to stop._

Buttoning his shirt back up, he was halfway out the door before remembering his phone across the room. Reluctantly, he salvaged it and continued down to his car, the city lights a glittering field before him.

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The familiar smell was in his nostrils before he reached the door; more blood. He flashed his badge, briefly, and invited himself in. Four a.m. was no time for introductions. He found Eames in the living room, her lowered head shaking slowly. He positioned himself next to her, his eyes following her gaze downward, to an attractive brunette covered in blood and rope.

"_Kani."_

Eames threw a glance his way "What?"

"Um.._kani…_i-it's the name of the position that she's tied up in."

"I'm not gonna ask how you know that" Eames had learned a long time ago not to question her partner's seemingly endless knowledge of the strange and unusual. She crinkled her nose as he stood close…he smelled of cigarettes, booze and self neglect. It was then that she knew how he'd spent his hours between the Plaza and here. Again, she didn't question. Whatever he did to facilitate his brilliant conclusions didn't matter, although, she worried about him sometimes.

Kneeling next to the victim, Goren pushed her hair from her face. Her eyes were wide; somehow, death had preserved the look of terror trapped in her irises. Strangulation again, that much was obvious. He lowered his gaze to follow the now familiar rope pattern. This one started at her ankles and snaked up her thighs. Two lengths of rope were used this time; one rope diverted behind her to entrap her wrists. The other looped through a length encircling her right thigh, and began a series of knots, then traveled to her neck. Here, he found a very Western style knot; a noose. Eames' voice was barely recognizable as she called the out known facts from over his shoulder.

"Victim is Barbara Wheaton, also known as 'Babs', 22, lived here, alone, for about six months after breaking up with her high school sweetheart. We're trying to track him down now. Last seen at the internet café 3 blocks up, sending out her resume and checking out job websites; Mommy and Daddy are listed as the leasers on this apartment."

Goren listens, not really absorbing. He examines wounds on the victim's thighs, searching for fibers similar to the ones found on Charlotte. He finds none, but notes that these wounds are much cleaner, more precise than the first victim's.

_He used a knife this time.  
He wanted her to struggle, to fight him._

Gently, he places his hand on her shoulder blade and turns her to examine her back. No wounds there, or on the torso or face; just her legs. The rope between her right thigh and her neck is taut, so taut you could probably drag a bow over it and produce a sound. Goren marvels at the twisted thoughts that manage to trot their way through his head sometimes. He realized that he wasn't sure if the thoughts came from his years on the job, or if the job was a result of his thoughts. He craned his neck sideways, deciding that this was not the moment for self-actualization. The victim's lips were slightly parted; her jaw dropped a fraction of an inch. Pulling her lower jaw down with his thumb, he reached in and slowly retrieved a length of nylon…a thigh high stocking. Standing quickly, he snatched the shoulder of a passing investigator. "Where is…um…her bedroom?" The man pointed down the hallway, and Goren took off in that direction, headed straight for her armoire.

Eames drifted in behind him, and leaned against the doorway, waiting patiently for his explanation. Goren picked frantically through the victim's top drawer, the universal lingerie drawer. Triumphant, he turned toward his sleepy partner, his trophy claimed. A thigh high stocking, flesh colored, with thin elastic of lace around the top. He held it out to Eames, who first examined it, then her partner. "It's one of h-hers. He uh, didn't bring it with him, and she wasn't wearing it when he overpowered her. He stopped what he was doing, and came looking for it." Goren charged back down the hallway. "I need that armoire dusted!" he barked toward the room. Two CSU techs scuttled out of the room, in the direction of the hall.

"But what does it mean, Goren?"

"He has a fascination with stockings. His mother probably wore them. The one in her mouth wasn't involved in her death, though. It was an afterthought. The important part was, like last time, the rope."

_The rope._

Goren went back to Barbara, kneeling to once again examine the configuration entrapping her. After studying it for a few moments, he gestured for Eames to join him on the floor. She knelt next to him; sure of what was to follow.

"He altered the traditional pattern. See here? This loop around her thigh, and the rope pulled through it? These knots…he injured her legs, causing her to squirm and pull away from him." He indicated to one of the simple knots tied down the rope. "Each time she pulled against the rope with her leg, one of these knots slipped through the loop, pulling the noose tighter."

"I think I know what happens next" Eames whispered, turning her head from the victim, suddenly feeling nauseous.

"This guy is-is all over the map. Half of his design is well thought out, methodical. He then changes the design to include the fatal aspect, the rope around their necks. He's using a 'highly involved school of bondage' but not caring about sticking to the principles, the basic teachings of it."

She couldn't help but notice that he'd quoted that _woman,_ almost directly in fact. Eames had just assumed that Bobby's hangover early this morning was a result of his usual behavior, hitting the bottle in his apartment, brooding over files or engrossed in the History channel. The thought had never occurred to her that he'd stayed with _her_, long after she'd left to look after Nathan. The realization angered her; they were supposed to work together, and here he was, interrogating witnesses without her knowledge, her involvement. Why did she even bother to do the legwork with him? She should just hang out at the precinct, looking pretty, waiting for him to draw his dazzling conclusions and collect a paycheck. Clapping her hand on his shoulder, she hauled him to his feet and dragged him out into the hallway, away from prying ears.

"Eames! W-what are you doing?"

"What the hell, Goren?! How long were you with that woman after I left the club?"

Fragments of confusion clouded his brain.

_What the?  
What's her?  
Is she?  
She can't be!  
How do I?_

Goren was caught unawares. Ripped from his observation of the scene, he wasn't quite ready to return to this plane of existence yet. He scrambled desperately for an answer, but his mind kept drifting back to the dead girl inside. Dammit, Eames knew he needed time to reset. She was doing this on purpose.

"I-I stayed for a few hours. I needed to learn more about this, um, lifestyle, they way these people think. I needed to learn more about this style of rope tying. Asian forms of BDSM are not exactly in my range of knowledge."

"Well, why don't you do what you always do, and read a damned book?" she shot back at him. She'd heard the whispers around the pen, that she was a sidekick, a guest star to the Goren Show. Eames had always ignored these rumors, knowing in her heart that she was an important part of this team, just like him. Until now.

Softer now, he attempted to reason with her. She was very obviously pissed, and he was too tired and too involved in the scene to fight with her right now. "Eames, not everything can be learned from a book. The books would teach me how to tie the rope, and what knots to use, but they wouldn't tell me the motivation, the thought process behind this behavior. Our killer…by changing the patterns, he's flaunting his talent, he thinks he's better than thousands of years of Eastern discipline."

"_Discipline?_" she was disgusted now. "You don't…you don't actually _admire _what these people do, do you Bobby?" Oh God. His first name. He was in for it now. "You think what these people do is excusable?

Goren lowered his eyes. Still not interested in a fight, he mumbled "I um, respect it as an art form. I think the discipline required for this kind of existence is…commendable, yes."

Disgust morphed to fury, as Eames stood there, burning a hole into the side of his head with her eyes. Maybe it was the late hour, maybe it was the expectation of nightmares to follow once she got home from this horrible scene, maybe it was that sickening _smell,_ but something suddenly sucked all the fight out of her. Exhaustion and rage made a funny combination, like having weights tied to every limb but with a racing pulse and burning skin. Wounded and tired, she turned to her favorite defense mechanism: venom.

Reaching into her coat pocket, she pulled out a business card and flicked it at her partner. "I'm going to bed. Call me if you decide you need a partner again."

With that she stalked off down the hall, her honey blonde hair floating behind her. Defeated, Goren swooped down and scooped up her card, folding it in half as he stuck it his pocket. He sighed, his heavy shoulders folding into a slump, and drifted back into the apartment, back to his own little planet, alone.


	7. Pet

**A/N: Okay so you may have noticed that I published this chapter, then took it down. That's because my stupid version of Microsoft Word only saved HALF of what I wrote! Which is why the chapter seemed to cut off at a weird place. So please, pick up reading where the last "chapter" left off and get the whole story! As always, thanks for reading and reviews are welcome!**

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He paced the hallway outside of her lab, a caged animal, his hair bristled, his every nerve on edge. The click of her door as it opened was like the bell at the Kentucky Derby, and he acted accordingly. Charging past her, he set his binder down and resumed pacing, ever ignorant of social courtesies like invitations or greetings. He looked rough. He looked tired. But most of all, he looked defeated. Rodgers had heard about his fight with Eames, and that couldn't have fared well for his state. She felt a pang of sympathy for this anxious beast pacing her exam room; he never _meant_ to be discourteous or abrasive to anyone, he just cared about the work so much. Too much. And these girls…these girls with their high spirits and passionate ways, their hearts on their sleeve for all the world to claw at. Well, these girls hurt him the most. Angie Suarez, Nelda Carlson, Jo Gage, each took little pieces of him with them; even Nicole Wallace got a share, exposing her wounded flesh just long enough to lure him near, before baring her teeth and tearing into him. Goren had a soft spot for broken girls…he just never saw how badly they broke him in return.

"Rodgers!"

Blinking, she gave his a faraway look. "Hmm?"

"I asked you what the results of the fiber test were."

Brought back to Earth, Rodgers reached for the manila folder next to the sink. "Treated leather. Good luck trying to track it down though. It's a common treatment process, found in everything from handbags to boots to saddles."

"What about Babs?"

"What?"

"B-Barbara Wheaton. What did you find on her?"

"I only just started on her this morning. Strangulation, just like last time, same type and depth of rope burns, and you were right about the cuts on her leg. He used a knife this time. Hesitation marks up toward her hip; he got deeper as he went further down. I'll call you when I have the rest."

"Okay. Um, thanks Rodgers."

"Goren!"

He stopped, not turning, only listening. "Go apologize to her."

He dropped his head and nodded, vanquished. He made his way to the elevator, pressing one instead of eleven. Once on the ground floor, he walked briskly to the corner donut store. Apologies and empty hands don't mix, his mother taught him. Sometimes, he thought she found a gem amongst her delirium…once in awhile.

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Dodging colleagues and closing elevator doors, Goren made it back to the eleventh floor just in time to see his partner hanging up the phone and glaring at him. "Deakins wants us in for a catch-up. Where have you been?"

He slid the white paper bag across the table. "I'm s-sorry. They um, didn't have any raspberry filled; I had to w-wait for them to come out of the oven."

Her favorite breakfast. She immediately softened her resolve; her partner the spanked puppy, his tail between his legs and his ears back, offering the squeaky toy of apology. Poor man. She felt guilty for going off on him last night; he was only doing the work. "You…you didn't have to wait. I like chocolate glazed just as much…"

"Yeah, well…I figured the least I owed you was a warm donut and an explanation. I-I didn't m-mean to exclude you, I n-never do, I just get so w-wrapped up that I um, forget. Not that I f-forget about y-you just that….aw jeez…"

He's suffered enough. She put her hand on his arm and stopped him, his fumbling attempt too painful to watch. He stared at her, waiting for some morsel of kindness, some indication that his thousandth sin had been absolved. "It's okay Bobby. I know you love the work. And I know that human interaction is not your strong point. Just try to think of me next time, okay? I don't like getting my information second-hand anymore than you do."

Goren took a breath, finally. He closed his eyes and nodded whole heartedly. She smiled, and all the planets fell back into their proper alignment. "C'mon, let's get in there before Deakins sends out an APB." She rose from her desk, nibbling on her peace offering and making her way across the pen. He watched her for a moment before taking off after her, no more anxious to be the subject of Deakins' wrath than she.

Goren sat down next to her in his Captain's office, his chest and shoulders free from the weight of her discontent. He would do well to remember that there were things here to maintain, to tend to. People were delicate things, maybe not him so much, but _other _people. People like Alex. People like his mother, and even his good for nothing brother. They all needed occasional tending to.

Deakins entered then, looking just as wounded as the two partners. He'd obviously just been torn a new one by someone upstairs, and he intended to pay it forward. He flopped down on his desk, his brow furrowed. "Where do we stand on this rope freak?"

"I uh, made a breakthrough in my profile last night. Our killer is not a true sadist. He's only playing one, to disguise the fact that really, he enjoys uh, being d-dominated by women. These aren't sex crimes, but revenge crimes. Someone made him feel very ashamed for these, uh f-fetishes, and he's trying to prove that he doesn't need to be controlled to get…excited. These complicated rope patterns are proof of the discipline and uh, 'affection' for control he's trying to feign."

Eames picked up "And while Bobby was playing 'Pin the Motive on the Masochist' I got in touch with SVU and asked them to research any domestic complaints involving non-consensual bondage or cases they may have caught with similar rope usage or victims. Got a few hits in the complaint department, we're chasing down the witnesses now. I also have the IT department checking out the victim's computers and internet histories to see if they spent time on dating sites."

"Dating sites?" Deakins' furrowed brow was now cocked in confusion. "You think this guy is trolling personals sites?"

"The victims share no social connections, and both of their ex-boyfriends checked out. He has to find his vics some way, and this just doesn't _feel _like a case of stalking."

Goren nodded "He's uh…not p-passionate enough for that. His method of killing is well thought out, but the c-crime in general is…uh not." A light rap at the door interrupted the trio.

_Suddenly there came a tapping.  
As of someone gently rapping,  
Rapping at my chamber door._

Brittany entered, looking instantly guilty for the interruption. "I-I'm sorry. Um, Detectives, there's…someone…here to see you."

Goren twisted around in his chair to face a very nervous secretary, and an even more nervous visitor outside Deakins' door. A tall, lanky boy waited in the bullpen, shifting his weight from foot to foot and balancing a messenger bad on his hip. Bright blue hair sat atop a face with numerous piercings, his skinny arms boasting several tattoos and his gaze cast downward, waiting. Eames shot her partner a look. What now?

Goren stood and placed a hand on Brittany's arm. "It's okay B-Brittany. We'll take it from here, thanks." She dipped her head in acknowledgment, casting a sideways glance at the young man before scurrying to her desk. Deakins waved his hand in dismissal, and Eames followed her partner out. He was already shaking the boy's hand by time she entered the bullpen. Sticking out her hand, it was instantly swallowed by the boy's large grip. "I'm Detective Eames; I see you've met my partner already."

He suddenly seemed very interested in the floor "Yes ma'am. My name is Tyler. I was sent here to speak with you and your partner."

Sent here? Before the words can reach her lips, Goren is directing Tyler into the nearest conference room, offering him some coffee as he closes the door. Tyler shakes his head in refusal. "You said you were um…s-sent here. Who sent you Tyler?"

"My Madame, Devita." Eames groans inwardly. Not this again. The young man's bag is now on the table in front of him, and he picks through it, searching for something. A look of relief washes over his face as he claims his prize and places it in front of Goren; a manila folder, thick with papers and shiny photographs. "My Madame was very upset when she heard about the second victim on the news last night. She and Johnny spent all morning going through security footage from the club, printing pictures of customers that have caused a problem in the past. I was sent here to deliver them, and to answer any questions you may have."

Goren perused the contents of the folder. Eames, however, was more interested in Dee, and her actions. "Why didn't she bring this here herself?"

"She left this afternoon for Massachusetts. Madame is conducting some instructional courses at a leather conference there this week."

"Leather conference?" She was even more confused now.

"Yes ma'am. It's kind of like a comic book or science fiction conference, but for um…you know…people like us."

Eames nodded slowly. "How convenient." It just doesn't stop with these people, does it? Goren took the lead over his partner's stunned silence.

"We spoke with your um…Madame…a few nights ago. She clearly stated that she didn't think anyone in her…circle was capable of these murders. Where was this file then?"

Tyler stared at the table. His eyes moved back and forth, as if he were reading an invisible cue card. "Madame is very disturbed by these crimes, and by the negative light it's casting on our…uh, lifestyle. It has become clear to her that all avenues must be investigated, even if it means violating the privacy of her clients."

Goren lifted his eyebrows, mumbling an enlightened 'ah'. He continued to examine the photographs and the notes attached to each of them. Eames saw her opportunity." What is your relationship with Dee?" Tyler blinked his eyes, perplexed. "Your Madame" Eames corrected.

Tyler let out a breath "I have been under Madame's instruction for almost a year. I also serve as her janitor at the Violet, as well as her home. She has…changed my life…" he drifted off, his eyes taking on a distant look.

Goren placed a photo in front of Tyler, his finger over the head of the subject. "It says here this guy was booted from the Violet after only one night. What's his story?"

He leaned in, scanning the photo "Oh, that's Donny, the Fake Dom." Even Eames was interested now.

"Fake Dom?"

"Yes ma'am. The first night he showed up at the Violet, he ran around the place, being rude to all of the women, expecting complete strangers to call him 'Master', fetch him drinks, things like that. He lied on his member's application, boasting that he had over a dozen slaves, but it was obvious that he'd never handled a submissive in his life. Madame called it…um…delusions of…uh…."

"Delusions of grandeur" Goren finished for him. Tyler looked relieved. "Yes, that's it. Thank you, Sir."

Goren had already moved on to the next photo. "And this guy, he was allowed to participate for a few weeks before his membership was cancelled."

"That guy's name is Bryan. He was banned from the club because of 'pain-seeking behavior'." Goren listened intently, confused. Wasn't this entire lifestyle a series of pain-seeking behavior? Tyler must have sensed this and continued "Bryan came in as a submissive, and every time he was in a play session with a Dominant, he refused to use his safe word, even when it was obvious that he had reached his limit. He would purposely disobey commands in order to receive punishment. That kind of behavior is permitted in a scene, but he never followed one single command, even simple ones. The last straw came when he showed up one night with a cat-o-nine that he'd brought from home, with little tiny razor blades attached to each of the tails. Madame took the whip from him and tore up his membership card. She said that he was only interested in being abused, and didn't respect the motto."

"The um…m-motto?"

"Yes sir. 'Safe, Sane and Consensual.' It's a phrase used by participants in BDSM to ensure that all practices follow those basic guidelines. Bryan's behavior didn't even come close to following it."

As she listened, Eames slowly gained a minute amount of respect for Dee. She may not ever fully understand the motivations of people like Dee and her followers, but they went to great lengths to ensure that everyone remained safe, and in one piece. She jumped in "Where can we find these people?"

Tyler lowered his eyes again "Every person in that file has copies of their membership application attached behind their photos, ma'am."

Goren lowered his head, almost touching the table with his chin. Tyler reluctantly met his eyes. He gave Tyler a knowing smile "You um…you have a problem with respecting women." Tyler's eyes went wide, and his face took on the look of a boy who's just been caught with his hand in the cookie jar. "It's just that you um…you lower your eyes every time you speak to my partner. Is that part of your training? You aren't allowed to make eye contact with women until you've learned to regard them as your superior?"

The boy's jaw dropped. He shrunk in his chair, bringing his arms together and dropping his head. Meekly, he nodded, "Yes sir. Madame is working with me to…modify…my behavior." He turned his head toward Eames, still keeping his eyes averted. "Madame says I've made great progress. I've grown a lot as a person since starting my training." Eames didn't know if she should be flattered or concerned that this complete stranger felt the need to explain himself to her. She settled on concerned, and moved the conversation back to its original destination.

"Do you mind if we keep these Tyler?"

"No ma'am. The original applications are still in the files back at the club." Tyler took Eames' question as a sign of dismissal. He gathered his bag together and stood, sticking out his hand to Eames, then Goren. "My pager number is written on the back of the folder. Please, call me there's anything more I can do to help. Thank you for seeing me today."

Goren glanced up from the folder long enough to say "No, um…thank you Tyler." Eames smiled at the young man, though he didn't see it, and pointed the way to the elevator. She slid in across from her partner and grabbed a photo, skimming the application behind it.

"What do you make of this?"

"There could be some, um…solid leads here. I think we should take it seriously."

Eames nodded. "You take the top half, I'll take the bottom?" "Yeah, sure." He tossed the top half of the file's contents across the table. Eames took it and headed for her computer.

Goren settled back in his chair, his nose in the file, his thoughts flooded with fragments of profiles.


	8. Frustration

**A/N: Well, here's the next chapter, a further progression into finding the killer. The book and medications mentioned are real, though I'm not sure if the side effects mentioned actually match the medications; I'm just going off of conversations in previous episodes. It's a shortie, but it came to me while at work today and I had to get it down before I forgot it. As always, thanks for reading and enjoy!**

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The Tyranny of a Blank Screen. It stared back at Goren, deep and dangerous. The blinding white seemed to leap from the screen and envelop him, a cold cocoon, squeezing squeezing _sucking_ the very thoughts from his brain, the air from his chest. Four hours. Four hours, a skipped lunch break, three cups of coffee and…nothing. Nothing to show, nothing to prove, nothing to follow, nothing. He closed his eyes and drew in a deep breath, resisting the urge to let his head fall, hard, onto the desk below him. His profiling didn't do a damned bit of good if there was no one to _apply_ it to. The short stack of applications and photos sent over by Dee had been given to Eames, she'd ruled out any leads hours ago. He still poured over his stack, and now hers, searching for any trait or characteristic matching his ideas of the killer's pathology. Donny the Fake Dom turned out to be a dead end; one beef for domestic violence a few years ago, the charges were dropped after the judge laughed the girl out of the courtroom, stating that spanking during intercourse did not a battered woman make. Bryan the Pain Puppy was even less interesting, not so much as a speeding ticket or flunked college course. The rest of the file contained nothing of interest or relevance. It was a welcome gesture, but ultimately, useless. Sighing, he slid his arm across the desk, letting the papers fall, the _fwap, fwap, fwap _of them hitting the ground a final declaration of his frustration. Sweeping up his binder, he left his glass enclosed prison, papers, empty coffee cups and all, and strode over to his partner's desk.

_There has to be something else.  
How did he find these girls?_

He looked at her, hopefully, praying that she had triumphed over his failure. She knew his look instantly. Her mouth drawn down into a scowl, she shook her head slowly. She too, had nothing. Goren let out a low growl and flopped down at his desk.

_Control.  
Parents are our first source of control.  
When we eat, when we sleep, what we wear. _

Goren checked his watch. The library had closed an hour ago. Dammit. Leaning over, he pawed around in the middle drawer of his desk, strewing files and papers about carelessly. He returns to a sitting position, a look of victory briefly sweeping his face; a very worn, very abused book in his hands, the green cover nearly rubbed clean of all its lettering. Eames craned her neck, placing her elbows on the desk in front of her. "Desk Reference" was all she could make out, and barely, at that. She watched as her partner flipped anxiously from index to front, index to front, and index to middle, before he finally settled on a page and began scanning. _He's got a scent _she decided and watched apprehensively, waiting for him to share with the rest of the class. Minutes dragged by like lifetimes, and finally she could stand no more. Breaking his concentration, she whispered "You on to something?"

He glanced up, his fists on either side of his head. "It's um…I-I just can't get this parent angle out of my head." Eames gave a slight roll of her eyes and leaned back in chair. _It's not a scent; it's the same old sock he's been chewing all week. _"An overbearing mother would lead to certain personality flaws as an adult: insecurity, inability to make decisions, and um…a-an overwhelming desire to please, to be loved. These behaviors can transfer to authority figures in the child's life: employers, landlords, anyone with a superior position over the victim." His words trailed off as his mind began to weave a thought, twisting and knitting. The girls were from upper class families, the first belonged to a country club, the second didn't but certainly had opportunities to visit, through friends or other associations. All of the immediate contacts at Charlotte's club had been investigated, briefly, and ruled out. "Eames, did Homicide ever canvass the employees at Charlotte's country club?" It was her turn to dig through her desk, cursing quietly then, bringing a folder to the surface of the desk, scanned it quickly. "It looks like they interviewed her tennis instructor and the party planner that coordinated her last birthday party there. No one else." Eames could swear that she actually _saw_ the thought turning over in his head, saw it twisting and flopping like an unfortunate fish on the wrong side of the water's surface.

"We um…we need to go back there. Look at some of the uh, t-the support staff. Valets, b-bus boys, pool cleaners…someone…unimportant, unnoticed." Eames brought her wrist to her face, a disappointed cluck escaping her throat.

"Those people are long gone, Goren. Unless you want to go banging on doors, it will have to wait till morning." His big brown eyes widened slightly. "Let me rephrase that…_even if _you want to go banging on doors, it will have to wait until morning." She thought he looked disappointed for a moment, as if his wild idea of throwing open doors to the homes of country club staff would actually be feasible. Annoyed at being cut down, he restored his worn copy of the Psychiatrist's Desk Reference to its proper place and rose from his desk, his binder and coat in hand. Remembering the file from Dee, he recovered it and placed it in his binder before offering to walk Eames to her car. She nodded, exhaustion sweeping her face and slumping her shoulders. Sighing, she scooped her purse up from the floor and pushed her chair in, leading the way to the elevator. The ring of the bell as it arrived on their floor chimed in her skull, crashing around wildly and turning her headache into a near migraine. Her partner followed her into the metal box, his overbearing presence draining the elevator of air and space. Eames felt dwarfed, petite and delicate, next to her towering partner, a black hole of mass and angst and genius. He noticed her staring at him, and tilted his head. "Oh…um…sorry" he mumbled, scooting against the wall of the box, doing his best to give her space; she almost laughed outwardly at the thought of this beast of a man…'scooting'. Goren studied her smirk, a small and private smile, as if recalling some long past joy. When he couldn't read her fully, he smiled in return "What? What are you snickering about?"

"Hm? Nothing…_scooting._" As if on cue, the elevator ceased its descent and opened its doors, the safety of the parking garage looming ahead. Her heels clicked and clacked against the cement, echoing through the caverns of the garage, rain on a tin roof. Her rhythm was interrupted by the chirping of her partner's cell phone.

_Click._

"Goren…yes, this is Robert Goren. Uh huh….what do you mean side effects?"

_.Click._

"Well, why is she trying to read at this hour anyway? She has therapy in the morning." She knew then that it was Carmel Ridge. With a touch to his shoulder and a wave, she continued her journey to her car, leaving her partner with his ever-present demons.

"_Mr. Goren, she refuses to turn her light out and sleep. She's claiming that the Risperdal is making her dizzy, and restless. We've been trying to get her to bed for an hour now."_

"The Risperdal has been making her dizzy for weeks. I discussed this with her doctor this past Friday. She was supposed to switch to Clozapine over the weekend."

"_About that, Mr. Goren…Clozapine is a relatively…new…medication, and Medicaid has not decided whether or not to include it in the um…plan…that your mother is on. Mr. Goren…Clozapine is rather expensive, and without Medicaid covering a portion of the cost…"_

He's reached his car by now. Sighing, he leans against the nearest cement post, his forehead against the cool stone. "Just skip her next dose of Risperdal and give her something for the dizziness. Start her on the Clozapine tomorrow morning."

"_But, Mr. Goren…"_

"Just do it. And bill me. You have the address." His phone closed with a resounding click and, dropping it into his coat pocket, he dropped down into his car and turned the engine over. Goren sat there for a moment, the purr of his engine lulling him, and he was suddenly too tired to drive. Too tired think.

Too tired to breathe.


	9. Il Finito

**A/N: Warning of f-bombs to come. This chapter started out a lot angrier than I expected. Enjoy!**

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The drive home was brief, and endless. The late hour left the streets of Brooklyn empty, the shadows of insects and deviants seeming to scurry further into the darkness at the sight of his headlights. Everything was what it was, and its exact opposite. He was exhausted; his eyes wide and skin twitching with vigilance. The roads and alleys were dark; the streetlights blinded him, amplified by the windshield. He never wanted to hear about his mother's condition again as he stared at the phone, waiting for the nurse's call. Quickly, and finally, he reached his apartment, dreading the sights, the smells, the lack of sounds. His feet thunked heavily against the concrete steps. His binder and coat hit the ground before the door closed behind him. Leaving a trail of clothing behind him, he made his way to the bedroom. Fuck it. He'd pick it up in the morning. If he lasted that long. His gun and badge were the only things that found their proper place that night, in his bedside drawer, his constant bedmates. His continual burden.

The sheets whispered to him in tongues as he spread himself across his bed, pulling the comforter over his tired body. Comforter. What a generous word for a fucking piece of fabric that decorated the place where you slept. He didn't even have the energy to make it to the kitchen, to the cabinet, to the liquor. Instead, he closed his eyes and exhaled deeply. He was too tired to fight anymore. Let the dreams come.

And they did. Whispers of plastic against skin and flashes of purple light threw him into a fitful slumber that, by morning, he was grateful to escape.

He didn't even need the alarm to wake up. It was still buzzing angrily as he stepped out of the shower, whorls of heat and steam at his back. He silenced the shrill offense with a smack to its top, perhaps a little harder than intended. A hot shower and fresh shave had brightened his outlook for the day, and he dressed anxiously, one hand buckling his belt, the other dialing Eames' cell phone. Despite the heavy task ahead of them today, he couldn't help but snicker at her sleep drenched voice.

"Eames?" Who the hell answers the phone with a question?

"Hey it's uh…it's me. You up yet?"

"Wh-What time…? No! Goren, I'm not up yet!" Her voice betrayed her, going from half asleep and dream-like to alert and angry in no time at all. She glared at her bedside clock and, growling, rolled on her side, away from the window and any source of light, intent on continuing her slumber. She knew that he'd have none of that, however. She was actually quite pleased that he wasn't calling from outside her apartment door.

"You should…um…you s-should wake up. First tee-off is at 7 a.m. The staff has already started their first shift." The beastly growl that echoed through the phone gave him the impression that he should show up with coffee. "We're going out of the city limits today, so I'll uh…I'll drive. Be there in half an hour."

Defeated, she hit the hang up button on her phone and went to the alarm function. She fumbled with calculations in her tired head. Half an hour to get here, minus Goren's insane driving leaves 20 minutes, plus the morning rush hour traffic, perhaps a coffee run, gave her a total of 45 minutes. Still fresh from her shower last night and unwilling to apply makeup this morning, she set her alarm for 15 minutes before he was scheduled to arrive and, dropping her phone onto the pillow next to her, settled into a frustrated snooze.

She had just finished clipping her badge to her blazer when the light sound of tapping resonated from behind her apartment door; trying to negotiate her open toed heel onto her foot and walk, at the same time, resulted in her hopping across her living room floor, fumbling with the knob. She scarcely opened it an inch before returning to her task. He'd get the hint. The smell of coffee preceded his entrance, and she was relieved. Her back turned, she _felt_ him before she saw him, as was usually the case. She pulled her hair up into what she hoped was a sexy-messy-I-don't-care bun and lifted her purse from its place on her couch, slinging it over her shoulder as she snatched a cup from his hand and stalked off down the hallway. Fumbling with his binder, coffee cup and key ring, Goren used his spare to lock her door before taking off after her. She wasn't mad at him; but, it wouldn't hurt to let him think that…at least until the caffeine kicked in. The dark brew bit her tongue as she slid into the passenger seat of his car. It was far too early in the morning to get into a pissing match over car keys, and she relinquished her position willingly. He climbed into the driver's seat and seemed to pause for a moment, waiting for her to change her mind. When she didn't, he stretched the belt over his chest, hooked it, and pulled out onto the road. Feeling the energy seep into her bloodstream, she finally spoke.

"What's your angle on this anyway?"

Relieved, he gave a half smile and continued to stare ahead "I just keep thinking…how is he um…finding these girls? It has to be the country club. B-Barbara Wheaton's parents weren't m-members, but she had plenty of opportunity…uh…to spend time at one. And this is the closest country club, I mean the closest _real _wasp infested, plucked out of Connecticut hills country club to both of their apartments. I think we haven't been able to find this guy because he's…he's not uh, important…in their lives."

"But based on your profile…what would a guy with…strange…tastes like him be doing working at a country club? Based on his interests, I placed him as a bartender, or at the very least, that creepy guy that lurks at the _end_ of the bar all night. It just doesn't seem to fit, Goren."

Sighing, he dropped his eyes from the road, briefly. "I-I know. It's not sitting right with me either. But, this is the closest thing we have to a link between the…uh…the victims. And I have a feeling that Homicide was m-more concerned with interrupting a tennis match than doing a proper c-canvass."

Eames nodded and let her head drop against the headrest. It was disturbing…the number of high society pockets that Homicide nested in. She often wondered if Fifth Avenue had a list of "Do's and Don'ts" posted in their department's pen. She opened her eyes then, fearful that her brief moment of relaxation would push her back over the edge into sleep. Sipping her coffee, she stared out the window, lost in thought, until she felt the car slow, and the metal gates of Windmere Country Club yawned before them, an iron-toothed beast crouching in the rolling hills.

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The gravel crunched beneath them as Goren wound his way into a parking spot, his vintage "project" a sore thumb among Mercedes and Jaguars. He scooped up his binder from the console and, sure that Eames' purse was tucked safely under her seat, hopped out and clicked his car alarm button. He caught a sideways smile from his partner as he brought himself next to her, keeping her pace. "What?"

A full blown grin on her face, she turned to her partner and chirped "That fancy alarm you have on there…it's kinda like putting icing on a turd, isn't it?" She could only throw her head back and laugh as her normally reserved partner dropped his jaw, aghast. Eames hoped that he couldn't see through her desperate attempt to shake him up, loosen his resolve, just a little. It made her nervous, to be so close to him when he was this intense. Birds must feel this way when a storm is brewing; clutching fervently to their branches, hoping against hope that when the heavens did break loose, they wouldn't be swept skyward in a fury of wind and rain, choking on thick, airless clouds.

"Hey! I'm getting it there, one part at a time, you know? Next, I get a tire." She sighed with relief. Her distraction had worked, if only for the time it took them to make their way to the clubhouse. Goren seemed to be leaps and bounds ahead of her now, tackling the steep hill with ease. Straightening her posture, she pumped her legs faster to catch up with him, grateful that this would replace her regularly scheduled gym session this evening.

The clubhouse loomed ahead of them, carpeted by a thin layer of morning fog. The smell of fresh cut grass and early morning dew served his senses well, and he felt the tiniest burst of energy fill him as he closed the distance between himself and the brightly lit building ahead. His head had already walked off with him, scanning a list of staff to check out and what kind of behaviors to look for. He had a feeling that none of them would admit any contact with either of the victims, besides what was expected: picking up their water glasses, bringing them a towel, serving their food. This killer liked to…watch. He would hang around while they played tennis or sat poolside, watching, watching, watching. He would get angry, insulted as the realization that he couldn't have these women started to creep up on him. He would feel entitled, like he had a right to these women. Like he was just as good as them. Goren hadn't noticed that his partner had caught up to him and was now opening the glass door of the clubhouse. It was early yet, only a receptionist occupied the building. She was young, blonde, pretty, and ridiculously perky for this time of day. Stretching a smile that looked like it would crack her face in half, she tilted her head and chirped "Good morning! Welcome to Windmere, how can I help you?" Goren stood back and let his partner flash her badge and ask for the person in charge of staff. His head reeled too fast for conversation now. Concern flashed over the perky girl's face as she lifted the phone and dialed her boss, her eyes flitting nervously between the two detectives. An older man appeared in the lobby, faster than the sound of bad publicity. He stuck out his hand, the receptionist's concern, apparently, contagious.

"Hello, I'm Alfred Durbin. Please, let's speak in my office."

_All the better to hide you, my dears._

The click clack of Eames' heels against the marble floor was like a metronome, slowing bringing him to the surface. _When I snap my fingers, you will act like a human. _Durbin led them to a room off to the side of a long hallway, the back wall of his office an expansive window overlooking the 9th hole. Goren suddenly felt that he was in the wrong business.

"Please, sit down" Durbin gestured toward a set of chairs opposite his own, and then sat, eager to get to the point and get the two partners out of there before golf carts started their morning trek. "What can I do for you?"

He leaned forward, taking advantage of this man's obvious need for personal space, and exploited it. "One of your regular guests…a uh, young girl…was found murdered last week. A few days later, another girl of her…pedigree…was also found dead. We think this club may be their connection." Durbin was genuinely concerned now.

"But, the police were here the day after that first girl…Cindy? Was it?"

"Charlotte" Goren sharply corrected. "Her name was Charlotte."

"Of course, Charlotte. The police took her tennis instructor in for questioning, but nothing ever came of it. We…assumed that the investigation here was complete."

Eames cut in, also annoyed "We don't think so." She pulled a picture of Barbara from Goren's binder. How did she know where to find that? "Have you ever seen this girl here? Maybe on a guest's pass or with one of your regulars?" Durbin briefly examined the photo, shaking his head before he even saw it, really.

"No, she doesn't look familiar. But then, I told the police that already. Now if there's nothing else" he started to rise from his chair. Goren bolted up and stuck his hand out, into the older man's bubble.

"Yes, actually, there's um…t-there's a lot more. We need to speak to some of your staff. People that had regular uh…daily contact with Charlotte. Your busboys, your towel boys, the valets…"

Durbin looked angry now. "But, the first tee off of the day is in a few minutes and-"

"We won't be long. Where can we find most of your staff this early?"

Defeated, Durbin sighed "Most of them are out by the pond setting up a tent for a wedding later this evening. It's a very big event…the Charleston boy is marrying that girl he met at Yale…"

"Fascinating" Eames spat at him, "If you need us, we'll be out by the pond."

Treading across the grass proved difficult for Eames, her heel sunk into the soft wet dirt and she felt enormous paws shoot out and catch her by the arm, steadying her. She blushed and thanked her partner, ever vigilant. Ahead, she saw the beginnings of a linen tent, white against the barely lit morning sky; staff flitted about, nervous ants on a nervous task. She picked the leader out immediately, standing off to the side, throwing his hands about and speaking loudly. In an instant she was beside him, smiling and cupping her badge against her waist, out of sight from the rest of the ants. "Hi, I'm Detective Eames, this is my partner, Goren. Can we have a few minutes?" The boy didn't seem surprised, he barked one last order before stepping off to the side to speak with Eames.

"My name's Sean. What can I do for you?"

"We're here investigating the death of Charlotte Truman. Do you remember her?"

The boy smiled "Sure. Everyone remembers Charlotte. Nice girl, never rude or demanding like the rest of the spoiled brats around here. I thought the police were done interviewing.."

"Not quite" Goren stepped in "We wondered if any of your coworkers ever had a problem with Charlotte, maybe seemed a little too interested in her?"

"Most of us were…'interested' in her. She was nice, and gorgeous. She was pretty good about letting the new guys down gently. The guys that have been here a few years all knew that she didn't date…outside of her class. She wasn't snotty about it though. She just didn't have anything in common with anyone here." Goren noticed how intent this boy was on pointing out that Charlotte was…_nice._ He couldn't harbor the kind of anger necessary for these crimes. One down…his eyes traveled around the pond…fifty to go.

Eames was also watching the activity around the pond. One boy was having trouble getting one of the tent poles to stay abrupt. He yelled over to Sean "The ground's too soft! We have to wait till it dries to set this thing up!" Sean turned his attention away from Goren "Get Ricky to do it!" Eames watched as a slightly older boy scuttled over to the tent pole, pulling a length of rope from his waistband. Fascinated, she stared as the boy went to work, screwing a metal ring into the soft dirt and looping the rope through it before tying it to the top of the pole, steadying it in the wet mud. The sun was now halfway in the sky, and she squinted against its harsh light. Was that…blue rope?

Goren's voice faded behind her as she walked, trance like, over to the boy and his creation. He didn't seem to notice her as he feverishly tied knot after knot, one on top of the other, making sure that the tent would not topple once he stepped away.

_Those knots…_

Before she can think she is on him, hauling him to his feet by his shirt collar and tossing him onto a nearby table, her cuffs out and clinking against his tiny wrists. She just gets to the part about "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you" when Goren's huge frame is beside her, grabbing her arms.

"W-what are you doing Eames?"

She nodded toward the ropes. "Those knots look familiar to you?" Goren's jaw drops, his eyes wide. She finishes her Miranda speech just as he flips his phone open, reciting his badge number and requesting an unmarked squad car for transport. Eames resists the urge to push the boy to the parking lot, instead letting him take his own steps. He is wild eyed and confused, not sure of which way to walk. She takes her opportunity and shoves him in the right direction. He is sputtering half sentences, a full one finally emerging from his lips just as they reach the bottom of the hill and enter the parking lot. "I didn't do nothing! I didn't hurt those girls! They wanted it! They wanted it _so bad._ I didn't hurt them! I didn't hurt them!"

Goren watches as a black car pulls up beside them, the dashboard flasher off, but in plain view. He flings the door open and pushes down on Ricky's head.

"Y-yea, y-you did Ricky. You um…you broke them."

The door made a satisfying click as it closed on their suspect. Goren stalked off to his car, Eames in hot pursuit. It was his turn now.

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It was anti-climatic sometimes. Oh, sometimes he had to work for it. Work his hands to the bone, his teeth to the gums, and his brain to the stem. But other times, when he thought he might actually _enjoy_ breaking down this filth, other times it was…disappointing. Three minutes in the stifling gray room, and Ricky broke. Goren barely had a chance to open his binder and begin his dance before the boy was in tears, his life story tumbling out of his mouth, unrestrained. Goren listened. Eames questioned. Goren nodded. Eames rolled her eyes. Case closed.

Now a wound up ball of unspent energy, Goren fidgeted at his desk, mountains of paperwork stacked in front of him. His leg twitched and danced, and he flew through the forms, most of them he had memorized, anyway. About halfway through the stack is when he heard a slight squeak of a yawn, and looked up to find his partner leaned back in her chair, her arms over her head. He looked at his watch. Four o'clock on a Friday. Goren was sure Eames had mentioned something about a family picnic this weekend. She opened her eyes halfway and found him staring at her. "You uh…you should go home Eames. You have a long weekend ahead of you."

"And let you do all the fun stuff? No chance" she laughed softly.

"Go on. I can finish up here."

She was tempted. Very tempted. She rationalized that he wouldn't let up until she accepted, and after turning it over a few times, decided to follow his advice. But not before she played the reluctant bystander first.

"You sure?"

He made a shooing motion with his hand, his head already buried in the warrant acquisition form, page 3. She smiled and gathered up her things quickly, before either of them could change their mind. "Thanks Goren. I'll see you Monday?"

She received a grunt in response, and, laughing to herself, took off toward the elevator. Goren rested his chin on his hand, his eyes droopy with boredom. He had just reached page 4 when his desk phone rang. Without taking his eyes off the page, he reached for it and answered "Goren."

"_Detective Robert Goren?"_

What now? "Yes, this is he."

"_Detective Goren, this is the 52__nd__ precinct lock-up. We have a…um…Frank Goren here."_

He felt the rage bubbling in his gut as his brother's meek little boy voice came over the phone. He leaned back in his chair. This is going to take awhile.


	10. Control

_Control._

_Control over my temper._

_Control over Mom's treatment, her meds, her therapy her __**life.**_

_Control over the interrogation room, the filth that resided there._

_Control over my stupid fucking brother and his stupid fucking stunts._

_Fucking sick of it all._

_Erase the browser memory twice. No. Three times. Nosy fuckers everywhere here._

_I'm not doing anything wrong. Just expressing my gratitude. Yea, that's it. _

The air in the pen was thick, oppressive…suffocating. He crumpled the paper, still warm from the printer, and stuck it in his pocket. He eyed the room suspiciously; sure that someone had heard the paper crunch or the printer whirring or seen him going over the browser history with a fine tooth comb. Barely a soul here. The nighttime secretary, a few stray detectives…what was that secretary's name? He should find out one day. She was nice. She'd brought him coffee from the break room on several occasions, when he was here, late, throwing his life to the brass wolves. It was usually burned or lukewarm, but it was the fucking _thought_ that counted. Thought think thinking he was thinking too godamned much. If he didn't watch it, he'd think himself right out of this, right back to his sad apartment with his sad books and his sad existence. A lifetime passed before the elevator finally dinged on his floor, spreading its doors like some needy hooker, always ready for him.

_Ride me Bobby._

_Ride me up and down, all night long. _

_Up down crime scene bullpen donut shop interrogation room holding cell locker room morgue._

_You got something better to do?_

He nearly jogged through the garage, arriving at his vintage piece of shit all too anxiously. His binder made a sick _fwap_ as it hit the passenger side window, his coat landing on top of it. The key turned, the engine purred, the tires squealed, the lights flashed red stop green go green again red stop. He didn't need the paper. This city was burned into his mind, into his skull, the backs of his eyeballs. Another lifetime passed before the black high rise loomed above him, the lights in various windows all eyes, all staring at him. _They_ knew what he was doing here_,_ and _they _didn't like it.

_Fuck them._

It was only after he flashed his badge at the sleepy doorman to gain entrance did he think, _really_ think about what was happening here. His badge. His partner. His Captain. His job. His mother. His life. His badge his life his badge his life his fucking badge.

Stepping into the elevator seemed to calm him against the tide of thoughts and regrets and what if's that had crawled into his brain and started nesting, his warped reflection staring at him fourfold from the steel walls. _Maybe I should get Mom a foil hat after all. _Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

_Fifth floor, hardware, children's wear, life altering decisions._

He squeezed between the doors, the cold metal sending a shock up his spine. _If you think that's shocking buddy…buckle your seat belt. _He scanned the doors quickly, numbers and letters suddenly a foreign language to him. It was here, at the end of the hall, where his frenzied journey brought him. He checked his watch, suddenly feeling like a teenager trying to sneak into his girlfriend's window. 8 p.m. It's reasonable. It's a reasonable time.

Some alien force lifted his hand, and tapped his knuckles against the door, three times. He waited. Not long. Click. Click. Turn. The door opened slowly, painfully, and then suddenly, she stood there. A black silk kimono draped over her tiny frame, red silk trim stopping mid thigh, mid-milk-white-impossibly-smooth thighs, down to shins, to feet, to tiny black painted toes. He forced himself to bring his eyes upward, to those blue-green orbs, bare of any makeup, staring wide eyed at him.

"Detective Goren…this is a pleasant surprise."

His hand shot up to his neck and instinctively begin rubbing, trying to rub the words from the back of his throat and out his mouth. "Um…H-Hi Dee. I'm uh…I'm not disturbing you am I?"

Her naked pink lips stretched into a smile.

He started to unravel.

"No, no…I'm just relaxing. My assistant manager is running the Violet tonight so I thought I'd stay home and…rest." All the dirty implications of what _rest_ could mean clouded his head. "I just turned off the news actually, congratulations on getting your man."

He cast his eyes downward "It was um…Eames, actually. She figured it out. I was just along for the ride." He thought he heard a bell ringing before he realized it was her, giggling. What the hell is he supposed to say now?

"Is there…something I can do for you, Detective?"

He felt the last thread snap.

"I um…I n-need to l-lose…control. Just for…a little while."

Silk whispered against wood as she stepped aside, opening a path for him.

"Come in, Bobby."

His foot felt like a lead weight as he lifted it, and placed it over her threshold.


	11. Sanctified

**A/N: The artist in me wanted to end the story at Chapter 10, and leave the rest to all you lovely readers' imaginations. But, the pervert in me wanted to continue Bobby and Dee's escapades. And, apparently, pervert beats artist. I realize that Bobby/OC ships (did I write that correctly? Bobby with someone **_**besides**_** Alex) are not too popular on this board, but please give it a chance! And please continue with the yummy reviews! On to the sexualization of Bobby Goren! Enjoy!**

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Before his heart could beat, he was against her. His fingers went straight for her hair, combing twining _feeling. God, I've wanted to do that._ He found her lips, somehow, in the dim light of her front hallway. He pressed his trembling mouth to hers, softly at first. Bobby wasn't sure what he was supposed to do here, wasn't even sure what he was asking of her; her tongue slides across his lips, left to right, pressing for entrance.

_That's it._

The final thread had snapped, and it tore open the seam holding back the animal in him. He slams her against the nearest wall, his body crashing against hers. She gasps into his mouth, giving a throaty chuckle before pushing her tongue between his lips and sliding her hands under his jacket, to his shoulders, his neck, and his chest. He breaks the kiss and moves across her jaw line, to the crook of her neck, exposed by the kimono gone askew. His breathing is frantic, there's not enough oxygen in the room. He catches a whiff of her perfume, _that fucking smell._ His nose is pressed against her neck, sucking in as much of the scent as his lungs will hold. Somehow, his synapses fire properly, and he's able to murmur against her skin "What is that?"

"Hmm?"

His hand slides up to her hair, twisting his fingers between the satin strands; he tightens his grip and pulls her head back, exposing her neck. "That fucking perfume. What is it? It's…it's d-driving me crazy."

He feels her cheek brush against his temple as she smiles. "Magnolia." Of course it is. He takes one final breath before moving to her face, her lips again. His hands can't seem to stop moving, across her shoulders, her waist, her stomach, down her thighs. She breaks the kiss and pushes her palms against his chest, stopping him. "Bobby…Bobby we have to talk" she breathes softly. He feels like he's been hit by a train. Confusion and guilt flooded his senses, his fight-or-flight instinct fully engaged. And it's telling him to break for the door. Go back to the squad room, back to Brooklyn, back to everything safe and sane that isn't this. He tilts his head, examining her.

"T-Talk? Now?"

She's still touching him, running her finger across his stomach, slowly. "Bobby, honey…you can't just walk into someone's bedroom and get tied up and spanked. There's…a way of doing things. We have to talk about what you want…what you need…what you like and don't like…we have to…negotiate."

Negotiate? What is this, a plea bargain? And suddenly, he _was _pleading. His hand shot up to his neck again, the other hand found his pocket. "P-please…please Dee, don't um…don't make me talk. If I talk, that will lead to thinking. And if I think, then I'll uh…I'll end up running down all five flights of stairs, running out of here." He moved closer to her, his hand leaving his pocket and circling her waist, coming to a rest at the small of her back. He pulled her, tight, against him, against the painful bulge in his pants. He was aroused and dammit, she was gonna know about it. "And I really" his words coming out in breaths "_really _don't want to do that right now." She opened her mouth to protest, unwilling to abandon her conduct. He quieted her with his mouth, pressed hard against hers, both arms around her. "Just don't leave any marks for the NYPD to find and we'll call it good, okay?" She smiled against his lips, and he could sense something happening. Something…changing. She brought her leg up around his body, and hooked it behind his kneecaps. With one quick motion, she brought him crashing to the floor, pain shooting across his knees and up his thighs. His massive frame shuddered as she wove her fingers into his short curls, tightening, and then yanking his head back to look up at her.

"Did I _tell_ you that you could touch me?"

"N-no."

She leaned forward, her breath against his ear. "Then don't…fucking…touch…me." Her palm flat against his chest, she shoved him backward, and he hit the floor, hard. He stared up at her as she walked over and deftly placed her foot on his chest, not standing on him just…restraining him. His member throbbed with a ferocity he'd never felt before. _Oh, you're gonna get it now sweetheart. _"You gonna be a good pig now?" Her hands rested on her hips, feigning anger. Closing his eyes and sucking in a breath, he nodded slowly. He felt her foot slide farther up this chest, resting just below his chin. "Show me what a good pig you are." He felt the weight of her foot come off his chest and hover above his waiting lips. He dropped his jaw against his chest, mouth open, eyes still closed. Still unsure, he slowly stuck his tongue out and touched the bottom of her foot with it. He waited for some sign of approval. She gave none. He dragged his tongue upward, toward her toes. She let forth a small moan. "That's the best you've got?" Eagerly he shook his head in a 'no' motion. He had much more than that. In one big gulp, he took three of her toes in his mouth, sucking anxiously. His tongue pushed up between each toe, lapping and swirling. He watched her head fall back, a luxurious groan escaping her lips and filling the room. "Now _that's _a good piggy. You ready to get fucked little piggy?"

"God, yes."

"Then get off the floor." He did as he was told, scrambling to a stand. She had already started walking off, through her living room and down another hallway. Eagerly he followed her, taking notice of the lavish furniture and plush carpeting filling the room. The entire east wall was one big window, the city lights gleaming through the glass. He made a conscious effort to turn his brain off, and focus back on the beautiful woman leading him to her bedroom. He caught a flash of her kimono as she rounded a corner. As he caught up to her, the pattern on the back of her robe nearly leapt out at him. It was a black and red embroidered dragon, twisting across her back menacingly. She stopped in front of a door and sliding it open, stepped inside. The light came on just as he entered behind her. He felt his eyes go wide.

Bedroom, no.

Medieval dungeon, yes.

Several menacing devices took up every corner of the room. He instantly recognized the St. Andrew's cross, and a bench resembling a sawhorse, but padded, and with four smaller pads surrounding it. For the knees and elbows, he realized. He shuddered; hoping that particular piece of furniture wasn't in his near future. The walls were lined with whips, toys and other things he didn't even want to _look at. _There it was again, that dangerous train of thought. What the fuck was he doing here? Was he crazy? This woman could really hurt him. He's never done anything like this before. The thought suddenly appealed to him. He's never done this before. His time to reconsider had run out. Dee faced him now, with a smile that would give the Chesire Cat chills. Her hand came up to meet his chin, cupping it gently. "I'm going to change into something more comfortable. I expect you to be naked and on your knees when I get back, understand?" He shivered at the thought, but nodded.

"Yes ma'am." He had no idea what would possess him to call her ma'am.

Her grip on his chin tightened. "Ma'am is what you call your mother. You are to refer to me as Madame. Understand, pig"? The shiver overtook his body now, and he exhaled deeply.

"Yes, Madame."

She exited the room, leaving him with his thoughts, his fears, and his reservations. His throbbing cock demanded relief. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt, the knot in his tie. Quickly he stripped his clothes off and, laying them in a pile beside the door, turned to face the direction she'd left in. Awkwardly, he lowered himself to a kneeling position, suddenly embarrassed at his jutting member. He felt the strange need to fold his hands behind his back. Reaching back, his laced his fingers together. And waited.


	12. Relief

The squeak of plastic against plastic liberated him from the dark recesses of his thoughts. It was a tiny sound, barely audible in the roaring silence of this room, of his uncertainty. He raised his eyes from the floor, understanding now that _this…_was really happening. Dee stood lazily in the doorway, one arm stretched up against the doorframe, the other resting on her hip. She was wrapped from top to bottom in shiny black vinyl. The strapless corset hugged her curves, a bright pink satin ribbon criss-crossed up the front of her torso, ending in a bow between her breasts, nearly bursting over the top of the garment. A black vinyl thong peeked shyly from beneath her corset, stretching over her hips and disappearing coyly. Thigh high stockings and ridiculously high, impossibly spiked heels completed the outfit, the stockings held by garter straps descending from her corset. Bobby was pleased to see that she had left her hair down, and applied only a minimal amount of makeup, thick black liner across the tops of her lids and something that made her lips very, very shiny. This wasn't her outfit from the club. No. She had dressed especially for him. Only the promise of what was to come stopped him, restrained him, from leaping across the room and taking her, right there in her hallway. Every blood vessel in his body pumped furiously, threatening to burst the moment she touched him. She shook her head slowly, and clucked her tongue. Pointing to the haphazard pile of clothes at her feet, she whispered "Is this how you put your clothes away at home?" He lowered his eyes and managed a barely perceptible "No, Madame."

She crossed the room and brought her palm crashing down on his cheek. Bobby gasped as his head flew sideways, flashes like photographer's bulbs circling his vision. "Pick them up." As he leaned forward, he placed his hands on the floor to lift himself up. She moved her foot across the floor, catching his wrist and knocking him back down. "Pigs don't walk" she said matter-of-factly, "They crawl." He placed his weight back on his hands, moving across the carpet, hand knee hand knee hand knee, till he reached the offensive pile. Resting back on his haunches, he slowly picked up each article of clothing, and folded it before placing them gingerly back, one on top of the other. Panic crossed his face as he realized he had no idea how to fold a tie. Is it end over end? Should I roll it? Finally, he folded it like a bed sheet, end to end to end, until it formed a neat little square. He placed it on top of the pile, and returned to his hands and knees, waiting for a response. "Very good piggy. Now face me." Clumsily he crawled around, feeling like a dog circling its bed before lying down. He returned to a kneeling position, his head down. Something told him that very, very bad things would happen to him if he met her eyes just then. "As your reward, you may choose the first device that I strap you to." Silence. Waiting. She gave a small gasp. "Oh, you _are _a good pig. I'm very impressed" he could hear the smile in her voice. "You may lift your head to look." Relieved that he had pleased her, he slowly lifted his head, fully taking in his surroundings. There was the cross, that menacing looking bench, a bizarre series of thick nylon straps descended from the ceiling, a steel gurney in the center of the room, complete with leg and wrist restraints and…_Is that a fucking __**cage **__in the corner? Christ. _

Without thinking, he settled on the cross. He had seen it in action before and was aware of what he would suffer through while in its confines. "Well?" she tapped her elevated toes impatiently. Bobby was beginning to understand the dynamics; her feigned anger at his disobedience, her transcendence from Dee to Madame. He understood that even the most minute of actions required her approval.

Clearing his throat, he muttered. "The cross."

She bent at the waist, her stare penetrating him. He resisted the urge to squeeze his legs closed over his throbbing erection, suddenly shamed. She narrowed her eyes "What was that?"

He cleared his throat again and spoke a little louder "Madame, will you please strap me to the cross?"

Obviously pleased, she smiled. "Yes, pig. I think I will." Bobby had not noticed that she had made her way over to the wall, and brought down what looked like a crop used at horse tracks. She strolled casually behind him, and patted his ass gently with the tip of the tool. She continued patting, gently, urging him over to the corner where the cross rose from the floor, nearly touching the ceiling. He crawled eagerly toward it, anxious to be off his knees. He sat, waiting for her approval to stand. "Get up." Slowly he raised himself to a stand, his thighs protesting the sudden change in position. He stood facing the device, his eyes following the wooden planks, skimming over the leather restraints. "Lift your arms and place your wrists in the cuffs." His arms came up, sliding his wrists into the padded cuffs as she yanked each one tight, trapping him. Bobby didn't think it was possible to be this erect. He exhaled deeply as she latched the last cuff. He felt her walk away, back toward the door. She returned before fear could fully grip his senses, and he breathed in her scent as she leaned forward, her lips just behind his ears. "I want you to look down." He lowered his head, examining the painted finish on the wooden planks, his embarrassingly white chest, his thick cock, the tip glistening with anticipation. "Do you see where you are?" He nodded, wordlessly. "This is where your grip loosens; where your senses abandon you. This, little pig is where **your **control is lost, and mine begins." He nearly wept at those words. Almost reflexively, every tense muscle in his body released its hold, his body weight pulling against the leather cuffs. He felt the silk of his own necktie surround his face, and Bobby was plunged into darkness.


	13. Salvation

**A/N: All errors seen here are mine, and not intentional. My pirated (oops! I mean "borrowed") version of Microsoft Word finally caught on to me, and refuses to perform. So, I'm typing in Wordpad presently, until my husband gets home and fixes it. Bad things happen when housewives are left alone with a bottle of wine and a keyboard. Enjoy!**

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The blackness seemed to go on forever. Bobby was staring into a deep cavern, enveloped by silk and cotton. His heart leapt with the beginnings of a panic, his breaths shallow and his eyes wide behind their soft prison. He focused on his ears, listening to her movements, trying to gauge exactly where she was and what she was doing. They failed him. His nose, however, did not, as he caught the faint scent of magnolia blossoms over his left shoulder, which, like his right, was strung up like a side of beef. His skin twitched involuntarily as he felt the folded tip of the crop land gently between his shoulder blades. He knew what was coming. A whisper through the air, like a hissing snake, preceded the first flash of pain, landing across his right shoulder. Before he could recover, the second blow landed on the opposite side, calculated and exact. A pause. He breathed deeply, greedily, sucking in as much air as he could before the next hit knocked it right out of him again. Right. Left. Pause. Right. Left. Pause. Bobby cursed his affinity for pattern recognition, and he soon began to predict each hit before he felt it. Loud little 'pops' resonated off his skin and met his ears as each swing of the crop found its mark. He'd give anything to see right now. To watch her as she delivered each blow, the light reflecting from her vinyl skin, the flash of glee in her eyes as she brought her arm backward. He hadn't noticed the last few hits, and somewhere he found the gall to speak.

"Madame...please..."

She stopped. Blossoms filled his nose and his ears perked to the squeak of her outfit as she manuevered closer to him. Her breath was warm and wet against his ear. "What, pig?" Bobby swallowed hard, not sure if his vocal chords would obey him a second time. Her fingers curled into his hair, squeezing slightly as she pulled his head backward. "Speak." The memory of what he had planned to say suddenly abandoned him, left him naked and erect in this cold, sterile room. Words tumbled out before he could stop them.

"Please...make it hurt."

A wave of hot air enveloped his ear as she gave a low chuckle. "Oh, you want more do you?"

His head bobbed furiously. His lips pressed together, he hummed a barely audible "Mm-hmm." Blood drummed rythmically in his ears, his breath caught in his throat. Did he really just say that? He waited for her response, fearful, a little boy caught pawing through his mother's underwear drawer. Something was very wrong here. Nevermind that he was tied up in a strange woman's apartment in the middle of the night. Nevermind that he had found her by illegally searching for her address using the police department's search engine. No, even that didn't matter now. All that mattered was that with each passing second, each flash of pain rocketing across his skin, Bobby was slowly losing control over his actions, his words, his pulsating cock which threatened to relieve _itself _from the mounting pressure any minute now. He felt her walk away, and listened intently. A low _thunk _as something hit the wall beside him. His breath hitched in his chest again, a cool breeze hitting his back as she moved behind him.

"I've got something, just for you."

He shivered. Something cool and smooth pressed against the inside of his knee, and slid slowly up the inside of his leg. Not leather. His thighs quivered as the unknown object settled below his testicles, moving back and forth, front to back. Each stroke brought him closer to an understanding, closer to release. She rubbed the flat surface across his ass, and just as he felt her draw back, he realized that it was a wooden paddle. He barely had time to reflect on what a silly, cliche tool it was before she brought it hurtling down across both cheeks.

Bobby Goren could see now.

Prismatic fireworks flared across his vision, bursting and exploding across the inside of his eyelids. Bobby thought he heard a yelp, and wondered if it was him, or her. He felt his eyes water. The force threw his body weight against the padded restraints, his nose brushing the wall behind the cross. Hot streaks of pain throbbed across his ass, the only thing keeping him tethered. Dazed, he struggled to maintain his breathing. His head had other things to worry about. Bobby felt strangely disconnected from the rest of his body, like being drunk, without the full stomach and impending nausea. Just as his mind began to surface, a sick _thwack _echoed through the room and he was under again. This time it was stars glaring across his eyes. She took her time with each swing, pausing just long enought for him to regain thought before bringing the thick wood down on him. He repeated this roller coaster of consciousness three times before a voice, unlike his own, leaked out from between his tight lips.

"Please! S-stop."

He could almost feel the dark cloud descend behind him, its presence thick and frightening. Her voice went up an octave or two, mocking "Oh, is the little piggy tired?" He could only manage a nod. He felt the heat of her body, smelled her perfume mingled with sweat as she stood next to him, her voice still cold and cruel. "You mean...I brought my favorite paddle down from the wall, just for you to pussy out after five hits?" Another nod. Please, just make it stop. Exhaustion gripped his body as his mind fully surfaced. He was sure he would crumble to the ground if not for the restraints, a limp marionette held only by his strings. Droplets of sweat glided down his body, from every pore, he thought. "I'm going to make you pay for that, pig." He felt the necktie loosen from behind his head, his eyes squinting against the harsh light. He watched her hands slide up his arms, releasing the hold on his wrists. His arms fell weakly to his sides, lead weights attached to his torso, felt his knees go weak, and he gripped the sides of the cross to hold himself up. His eyes drifted downward. Still hard as a fucking rock. What would the department psychologist have to say about _this,_ he wondered. He stifled a giggle...yes, a giggle. A forty year old man, with a distinguished career as one of New York's finest and a raging hard-on, felt like giggling. He tried to tell himself that it was endorphins, seeping into his bloodstream to relieve the throbbing pain, but his brain had suddenly floated off. He almost didn't feel her hand as it gripped his shoulder and spun him around to face her. She pointed to the floor, and he obeyed, sinking to his knees and lowering his head. Resisting the urge to look at her, drink her in, examine every stitch in her outfit, every curve of her flesh, Bobby prayed that she wouldn't blindfold him again. Dee had lost the mocking tone in her voice, taking one of command "Undress me." He silently thanked whatever God had heard him, and reached up, unsure of where to start. Before he could decide, her hand came down on top of his, smacking him lightly. "I didn't say you could use your hands." Reaching down, she unhooked the garter straps from her stockings and untied the satin bow at the top of her corset. Bobby stared at her for a moment, realization creeping slowly into his head. He couldn't help but smile as he leaned in and, gripping the bottom of the ribbon with his teeth, began to pull it loose from her garment. Dee stroked his hair slowly, pleased with him. Her touch sent tiny electric shocks through his scalp. He responded with a groan, and yanked on the ribbon faster. God help him, if he didn't get her clothes off soon he was going to explode. Relief flooded his senses as he watched the ribbon fall to the ground, a bright pink puddle between her feet. The most beautiful sound he had ever heard suddenly filled the room, a soft moan and a chuckle. "Good boy." Bobby watched as she reached back, heard metal scraping metal as her zipper came down. He stared in amazement as the corset came off and joined the ribbon on the floor. Milk white flesh stared back at him, her perfectly round breasts breaking out in goosebumps, protesting the room's temperature. Dark pink nipples tightened, coming to a peak and begging to be licked. He felt all of the air leave his chest, unable to move his eyes from her. She interrupted his bewildered gawking "I'm waiting, pig." Remembering that there were still many, many more clothes to strip from her, he focused on the vinyl thong, its coy secrets revealed in the absence of her corset. As it always did, logic overtook every other emotion. He studied the thin strap of plastic wrapped around her hips. How the hell was he supposed to get _that_ off?

_Start at one hip, then pull it down one side at a time.  
No. Just grab the front and yank it down. The rest will come._

_Aw, fuck it._

He reached out and grabbed both sides of her panties, yanking them down around her ankles. He barely caught a glimpse of her smooth center before her palm crashed down across his cheek. The mirth in her voice was barely contained as she scolded him. "Oh, you're a very bad boy. Now you're really gonna pay." As the flashes cleared up, he choked out "Sorry."

_No, I'm not._

She reached back and, perching herself on the edge of the metal gurney that occupied the center of the room, pointed to the floor again. Eagerly, he crawled to her. His eyes now level with her most intimate of parts, it took every ounce of strength to stop himself from leaning in and lapping at her like a thirsty dog. He continued to stare as she rolled her stockings down and removed them, her shoes thudding on the floor beside him. All of heaven flashed before his eyes as she opened her legs, her pink core spreading inches from his lips.

_Pleasepleasepleaseplease._

"Show me how sorry you are."

_Thank you._

He leaned in, pressing his face against her core, and thrust his tongue in. Slowly, he dragged it up, brushing across her swollen clitoris. Why the _fuck _wasn't his tongue longer? He made a conscious effort to slow his frantic lapping, circling the little pink button rythmically. Her fingers twisted into his hair, her moans filling the room as she tightened her legs around his shoulders. She bucked slightly against his mouth, urging him to move faster.

_Oh no, sweetheart. Not yet._

He looped his arms around her knees, hugging her thighs against his ears. She wasn't getting away. Bobby pulled his tongue back, letting only the tip glide across her wet labia. His slow pace was torture for them both. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to make her cum, his mouth thirsting for her sweet liquid. She leaned back, her other hand resting on the table for support. For the moment, she didn't mind his little game. She had plenty of time to make him pay for it. Dee squeezed her thighs against his ears tighter with every flick of his tongue, intent on making him feel every stroke. Her nails dug into his scalp, her pleasure mounting. Finally, he couldn't stand it any more. He brought his tongue back up to her clitoris, and with a few calculated strokes, brought her over the edge. He reveled in the feel of her thighs twitching and shuddering against his face, listened carefully to every sigh and moan that escaped her lips. Gripping her legs, he pulled her closer, her ass making a faint squeak against the metal as she slid toward him. Devoid of any discipline, he licked at her center hungrily. He only had a few seconds before she returned to 'character', and he was going to enjoy it. He made one last slow drag up her core before she yanked his head away, sweat glistening off her heaving chest, her eyes wide and flashing with satisfaction. "That's...my....good boy" she panted, her hair clinging to her cheeks and neck in wet strands. Bobby felt his ego swell a little, before his demanding cock reminded him that it still had not been sated. She seemed to read his mind, a grin stretching across her lips "Get on the table."

He was on his feet and stretched across the table before his brain fully registered her command, the cold metal sending bolts of shock up his spine. He watched her as she circled the gurney, sliding his wrists and ankles into the restraints. Dee stood next to him, briefly, and ran her nails across his abdomen, watching in delight as his dick bobbed in response to her touch. She was going to make this painful for him. Strutting back to the corner where his torture had first begun, she swooped down and picked up his necktie again, slightly damp with his sweat and tears. She placed herself behind his head, lifting it with one hand while the other circled the strip of silk across his eyes.

_Please, no. No._

Bobby was again surrounded by darkness. He felt her walk away. Panic rose in his chest again before he felt her weight on the table, heard her glide across the surface and stop right above him. He felt her skin touch his as she straddled his stomach, felt the heat of her body as she leaned down. Something small and tight brushed his lips, briefly, before dissapearing. There it was again. Some knowledge managed to creep its way to the surface, and he realized that it was her nipple. Before he could open his mouth and clamp down on it, she pulled away. He smiled, waiting for her to lean down again. Paying close attention to the distribution of her body weight, he was ready when she descended. His lips barely opened before he felt her shift backward, eluding him again. Bobby snarled and thrashed against the restraints, his nails digging into the leather, convinced that he could break them. Dee threw her head back and laughed, amused by his animalistic growls. She lightly dragged her nails across his chest, her fingers curling into the soft tufts of hair. She watched with pleasure as his chest collapsed, a loud sigh leaving his lips. His shoulders relaxed, and she knew she had defeated him. Bringing herself up on her knees, she hovered above his twitching cock, fixated on his face. Every muscle in his face tightened, his anticipation at its peak. Letting gravity take over, she slid his throbbing mass inside her. He gave a loud groan as she surrounded him, her white hot core swallowing his entire length. Bobby could only lie there, helpless against his prison, as she bucked slowly against him. She was purposeful in her movements, being sure not to bring him to the edge too quickly. She wanted to enjoy this. Every thrash of her hips brought inhuman sounds from him. Sweat gleamed off his shoulders and chest, glittering under the bright light. She watched as he straightened his head, staring at the ceiling...if he could see, that is. She only saw his lips move, no sound escaping. Dee leaned down, her ear against his lips.

"Please...I have...I have to touch you."

Flattered, she pressed her lips against his briefly, before reaching up and freeing him. Before her hands met her sides again, he ripped the blindfold off and closed his arms around her waist, hugging her tight against his chest. Desperately, he pressed his lips wherever they would reach. Her cheeks, her lips, her neck, her collarbone. Gripping her ribcage, he pulled her upward, bringing her breast to his waiting mouth. Sucking frantically, he closed his eyes, his prize claimed. She bucked faster now, driven by his desperate pawing. Bobby tried to hold on, his aching body protesting. He lost the fight, his head falling against the table with a loud thud. Something between a moan and a growl left his lips as he spilled into her, his vision a glaring white. Dee collapsed against him, her heaving chest in tune with his. Weakly, he brought his hand up and rested it on her back, her sweat slick beneath his fingertips. He felt her chest shake with a laugh as she lifted herself off of him and circled the table, releasing his ankles from their prison. The sights came in flashes, her hallway, a flickering light, a bed drenched in velvet. He watched from some faraway place as she pulled the covers back and eased him down, bringing the cotton sheets over his large frame before settling in beside him. Bobby reached deep within himself, drawing up the strength to curl his body around hers, the velvet darkness swallowing him.


	14. Morning

His conscious mind rose slowly from the depths of slumber, inky and thick. Nothing in particular woke him, no blaring alarms, no discomfort. Alarm flooded his veins as he scrambled desperately for a clock, a watch, any sort of timepiece. His hand found his phone on the nightstand, and he flipped it open, dread gripping his chest. In blue, digital letters above the time, the word "Saturday" stared back at him. A sigh burst from his chest as his head fell back onto the pillow. He stared up at the canopy top of the plush bed he currently reclined in, the velvet comforter, while soft against his beaten skin last night, now thick and stifling.

_They still make canopy beds?_

He studied the stitches in the fabric over his head, a feigned interest replacing his realization that eventually, he would have to get out of this bed. He would have to get dressed

_Jesus, I slept, naked, next to a complete stranger last night.  
Shit…did I snore?_

and venture out into the living room. And he would have to confront what happened to him last night, what she _did_ to him. What he asked…no…begged for. For the first time in his life, Bobby Goren hadn't thought things through. He hadn't thought about the morning after, about facing her over coffee and toast, discussing the weather or some other frivolous subject. No, it was only her that he thought of. And it was her that he wanted to avoid this morning. The inevitable bore down on him, and with a reluctant sigh, he rose from the bed and found his clothes, still folded neatly into squares, on the floor next to him. He struggled into his boxers and slacks, throwing his shirt over his shoulders and buttoning five of the eight buttons. He ran his hand through his curls, flattened by sleep, in a vain attempt to improve his fresh out of bed appearance and headed for the living room. Once through the bedroom door, the apartment suddenly erupted, buzzing with sounds and life. A radio blared from somewhere, and a muted television shimmered blues whites and greens. His tired eyes caught movement across the room, in the kitchen. Pulling his shoulders back, he sauntered toward that movement, and nearly jumped out of his skin when a series of bright blue spikes rose up from behind the little kitchen island.

He blinked the morning blur from his eyes and attempted to refocus. "T-Tyler? Is that you?"

A sheepish grin spread across the boy's face. "Good morning, Mr. Goren. Coffee?" He held up a glass pot, still steaming. It was only then that Bobby noticed the boy's choice of clothing; a ridiculously shiny, plastic maid's outfit, complete with a lacy apron, fishnet stockings, and heels even higher than Dee wore. Even Bobby's normally astute mind couldn't fathom this, not before he's even had lunch. The younger man prattled on, completely unaware of Bobby's slack jawed response to his offer. "I really hope I didn't wake you. Madame specifically told me not to disturb you, and to have coffee ready when you woke up, but" he shrugged his bony shoulders "I just can't do housework without music, you know?" Of course not. Bobby took a seat in the dinette, the fog slowly lifting.

"So this is um…this is what your training consists of?" he wagged a finger up and down as he spoke, indicating to the boy's outfit.

Tyler nodded enthusiastically, undaunted by Bobby's reaction to his clothing. "Madame says I need to…um…" he drifted off, his eyes lingering toward the ceiling as if trying to recall his lines in a play. "I need to…understand…and respect the lengths that women go to in order to appear attractive."

Bobby nodded, simulating comprehension. His finger drifted downward "And the um…the s-shoes?"

The boy looked downward, bringing one foot up on the heel of his shoe and swinging it outward. "Oh, these? Part of the whole 'understanding' bit I suppose." He gave a secret giggle and a roll of his eyes "These aren't even the worst part of my outfit." Bobby was afraid to ask for his clarification, but he offered it with no prompting. "Do you know what a chastity device is?"

The older man stifled a laugh from exploding out of his chest "You mean like those medieval belts? With the locks?"

Tyler furrowed his brow and shook his head. "Mmm, not…exactly." He waved his hand "Well, I'm sure you'll find out. Madame makes most of her subs wear them." A knowing smile spread across his face. "Though, I must admit I'm a little jealous. None of us have ever been allowed to spend the night before. You must be her favorite."

_Us? As in multiples?  
Subs?  
What the __**fuck**__ did I get myself into?_

The quiet swell of jealousy surging in his blood was stilled by a sudden realization. _Condom._ His uncertainty of what would happen once he rushed over to her apartment, and his haste to get there before logic took over, had left him devoid of common sense. And, his recent track record, or lack thereof, deemed it unnecessary to keep a supply in his wallet. The introduction of other lovers into this equation caused a very big problem for Bobby. Angry, he stood from the table, the morning's haze gone from his head. "Where is she?"

Tyler's eyes went wide, surprised at the older man's sudden change in attitude. He stuck a finger out, back toward the living room. "Out on the b-balcony, with her tea and the paper." He watched as Bobby stalked off in that direction, fearing that he had said something to upset his Madame's favorite. If that were the case, she would really let him have it. He shivered slightly before returning to his housework.

Bobby slid the glass door leading to the balcony aside, and found Dee there, as Tyler said, sipping from a delicate porcelain cup and holding up the Arts and Entertainment section. She glanced over her shoulder at the sound, a lazy smile turning up the corners of her mouth. "Good morning, Bobby." She glanced at her wrist playfully, checking an invisible watch. "I trust you slept well. Do you normally sleep for ten hours a night? I can't imagine how that fares with your choice of career."

He flopped down across from her, dragging his hand down his face. He took a deep breath before speaking, trying to control his outrage. He was an adult. She was an adult. Together, they had done adult things. Protection was as much his responsibility as it was hers. They had both lapsed on it, and she deserved a chance to be heard. Her paper came to a rest, and she gazed across the patio table at him. Gathering nerve, he forced his vocal chords into action. "We uh…we didn't use…um, _protection_…l-last night."

Her smile faded slightly. Only slightly. Her chin bobbed in a nod "Yes. That's right. But you have nothing to worry about. The modern age has afforded women with many means of pregnancy prevention. And, fortunate for you, I am a modern woman." Her smile returned full force before her teacup met her lips.

Bobby felt like she knew what he was really getting at. Her playful skipping around the subject only served to anger him more. Frustrated, he knitted his brows together and growled under his breath "Your other lovers…"

Only half interested in the conversation, she murmured a slight "Hmm?" her eyes still fixed on the paper. "Your other lovers!" he snarled, his jealousy returning, and barely contained. Bobby wasn't sure what made him angrier, the possibility of disease, or the knowledge that other men had touched her, pawed at her, begged her for relief. Her eyes wide with surprise, there was no mistaking where her attention lay now. Composing herself, she calmly folded her paper and set it aside. A quizzical look crossed her face as she looked at him. "Other…lovers…Bobby?" she annunciated each word carefully. "Why would you think…?

He cut her off, anxious to get to the point, to analyze what danger, if any, he was in. He flung his arm outward, back toward the kitchen. "Your little blue haired pet! He made it a point to tell me that I'd soon be in some kind of-of medieval contraption! Just like _all of your other_ subs!"

Dee was fully confused now, her eyes drifting in the direction of his arm. "Medieval…oh! Do you mean his chastity device, darling?" He seethed now, his breaths barely escaping through his clenched teeth. He could feel his face flushing with anger. Bobby couldn't remember the last time he was this fired up. He didn't like it. Dee continued, refusing to acknowledge his bubbling fury. "Well, you have no fear of that. You're not one of my subs, Bobby. You are my lover. And, out of the one lover that I have, I must say you're my favorite." As quickly as it began, his fury simmered down to simple confusion, and embarrassment. Words left him then, leaving only syllables. "So…I…I'm…only…"

She giggled, her blue eyes twinkling in the morning sun. "Yes, darling. You are the only one I'm sleeping with. And you've arrived after a bit a dry spell, so your jealousy is misplaced, however flattering. Though I am slightly hurt at your conception of what kind of girl I am." She pulled her lips into a playful pout, her lower lip sticking out just a little farther than her top. Bobby resisted the urge to saunter to her side of the table and take that lip into his mouth.

"Dee….I-I'm sorry. This is…I haven't exactly done…" he was cut off by the Arts and Entertainment section landing in his lap. "No matter, dear. You can make it up to me by escorting me to the new exhibit at the Met tonight." She smirked at him, her eyes traveling downward. "I do hope you have a better suit than that."


	15. Vibrations

**A/N: Sorry it's so long in coming, vacation + car troubles = no time to write! Anyways, this one has a cheeky little twist to it. Hope you enjoy! PS-I looked and looked and looked, but could not find the episode where Deakin's actually calls the Chief of D's by name, so I made up one. Apologies in advance if it's wrong. Happy reading, lovelies!**

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Deep scratches ran down his back, stinging under the piping hot water of his shower. Bobby leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cold tile. He paid close attention to every drop of water that touched his skin, mentally following its path down his body. He let the steam surround him, envelop him in a foggy cocoon. If he just kept breathing, if he just stood there, it would come to him. The events of the last 24 hours weren't a blur. In fact, he couldn't remember anything more clearly than this: his frenzied pulse as he raced to her apartment, the crippling embarrassment when she opened the door to find him, stammering and nervous, the blinding pain, the paralyzing pleasure. It came off more as…shock…than anything. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't force the series of events to make sense. They occurred in a proper chronological order, and they fit like puzzle pieces. But they didn't _make sense._ He suddenly had…a lover. Years of failed relationships and loneliness formed a barricade on his conscience, preventing him from truly grasping what this all meant.

Bobby was torn from his abysmal thoughts by a blast of impossibly cold water. "Godamned ancient buildings" he growled under his breath. "There's a point when historical preservation gives way to a cheap ass landlord." He stepped out of the shower and dove for a towel. He wrapped it around his waist and began smearing away the condensation on the mirror. He began to lather his face, grumbling as the mirror continued to fog despite his best efforts. He slid the razor across his skin, ridding himself of the graying shadow that crept across his cheeks and chin. Six hours stood between him and the time he was scheduled to pick Dee up, and Bobby was sure that he would spend most, if not all, of that time figuring out what the hell to wear. He had purchased a tuxedo after his second Mayor's Ball, but Dee hadn't mentioned anything about black tie attire. Besides, it was a museum, not prom. He stood, one hand at his side, the other gripping his chin, as he pondered the contents of his closet. Flipping through jacket after jacket, he gave a frustrated snarl and walked toward his living room in search of his cell phone. Scrolling down the list, he hit the 'call' button and flopped down on his couch.

After three rings, a sleep heavy voice answered "Ogan." Throat clearing. "Logan."

"Hey Mike, it's Goren." It suddenly struck Bobby how odd it was, introducing himself to his coworkers by his surname. Another passive aggressive tactic to keep people at arm's length, his inner Freud chirped. He could hear the sounds of fabric shuffling, and imagined Mike sitting up in bed.

"Bobby? What's wrong? We caught a case?" The older man snickered lightly to himself. Even the most lighthearted members of his profession…his _kind_…stayed on the job. Weekend or not.

"No, no case. You still sleeping man? It's nearly noon!"

More throat clearing "Karaoke night at O'Malley's." A pause. "Don't ask."

Bobby laughed whole heartedly now; the image of his 6'1 coworker with a microphone in one hand and a dark Irish beer in the other didn't help matters, either. "What can I do you for?" All traces of sleep gone from his voice, Mike rose from his bed and made his way to his kitchen in search of water.

"Hey I got this um…this th-thing tonight. And I'm a little lost in the wardrobe um, department." It is now Mike's turn to laugh, as he pictures his less-than-socially-adept colleague perched at his desk, making charts and graphs regarding blue shirt versus red shirt or gray suit versus black suit.

"What um…what sorta _thing_ are we talking about here Bob-o? 'Cause uh, it's been my experience that _things_ are a greatly varied concept."

Bobby rolled his eyes "I-it's an exhibit opening, at the M-Met." He held his breath and waited for Mike to unleash a barrage of teasing insults. Instead, he was met with silence.

To his credit, Mike did actually ponder his friend's question for a moment. "Shit man, I don't know. I can barely spell 'culture' and you want me to tell you how to dress the part?" They shared a laugh before Mike broke in again "Why don't you call Eames? She's a woman…I think. She'll have something to tell you."

"Yeah, I think I will. And I'm gonna tell her you said that, too" Bobby teased. He laughed at the panicked tone in Mike's voice.

"Aw c'mon! Don't do that! I'm still healing up from boxing practice last week." Another laugh and a goodbye were shared before Bobby hit the first speed dial on his phone. He was greeted by high pitched screams of children, very obviously hyped up on sugar. He could barely make out his partner's voice against the tirade of noise. "Eames!" she nearly screamed into the receiver.

"Your turn to babysit?" he hollered back.

"Nathan's birthday party." Shit. He'd forgotten about that. He made a mental note to pick up a belated present before Monday morning. "Don't tell me the Captain threw a case at us?" There it was again. That instinctual devotion to the badge.

"No, but uh…I do need your help with something." He could hear the screams fading, and figured that Eames had gone inside or outside or somewhere beyond the octave range. "I'm going to an art exhibit tonight and uh…I don't know what to wear." Her high pitched giggle assaulted his ears from across several boroughs. He should have known better. Mike be damned, if anyone was going to tease him about this, it would be her. To his relief, she halted her snickers and turned serious.

"Is it a black tie event? 'Cause if it is, you're in a bit of trouble. That tux of yours is a little dated."

"Dated! Whaddaya mean…no, it's not black tie. I don't even know what the exhibit is…I was um…invited." He tried to make the fact of his date as imperceptible as he could. Too bad he and his partner happened to be in the business of detecting.

"Well, what is she wearing?"

"I don't know…" Dammit, she caught him. "Why does that matter anyway? This isn't homecoming, we're not supposed to match!"

"No, but you're not supposed to clash, either." She fell silent, and Bobby could almost hear her thinking through the phone. "Wear your black button up shirt with the silver stitching, one of your black blazers, and those dark Versace jeans that I made you buy but you've never worn. And your dress shoes, the ones without the laces. Tuck the shirt in and button the jacket, but put on a nice belt in case you need to sit down. And no tie." Bobby marveled at her attention to detail; he'd never realized that anyone noticed his habit of buttoning and unbuttoning his jacket as he sat. "And for God's sake, shave will ya?" He gave a throaty chuckle and thanked her. The background noise had resumed, and he could only assume that she'd returned to the party. He said his goodbye and returned to his bedroom, rooting around his hamper in search of the black shirt. He found it buried at the bottom and, checking his watch, threw on a pair of sweats and a t-shirt. Bobby grabbed some quarters out of his laundry money jar and a worn out novel, and headed for his elevator.

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He fidgeted with his collar while he waited. His neck felt bare…exposed…without a tie. Bobby waited a moment, and then raised his fist to knock again. Inches from the door, it fell back, revealing Tyler. This time he was dressed in jeans and a tank top, a hoodie sweatshirt slung over his arm. A smile instantly broke out across the boy's face as he stepped aside to allow the much bigger man passage. "Hello again, Mr. Goren. Madame asks that you wait in the living room while she finishes getting ready. May I make you something to drink?"

Bobby could see that the boy was on his way out. He figured the younger man had done his share of work for the day. Still embarrassed over their encounter this morning, he rubbed the back of his neck and mumbled "No, I'm ah, I'm o-okay." Tyler gave a bob of his head and started for the door again. "Um…Tyler?" His eyebrows shot up. "We're um…it looks like we're going to be seeing ah…a lot of each other…so um…j-just call me 'Bobby', okay?"

Tyler blushed slightly and dropped his head. "I appreciate the sentiment, Mr. Goren, but Madame would have my head if she heard me address you like that." With that, he slinked out the door and down the hallway, placing earphones on his head as he approached the elevator. Bobby made his way into the living room. He continued his observation of his surroundings from the night before, now fully interested. A large, thick area rug stretched out across the dark wood flooring, white and fluffy. Bobby smirked to himself. Shag carpeting, canopy beds…Dee somehow managed to make out-of-date furnishings seem elegant and posh. A low backed, black leather couch sat atop the rug, and was flanked by metal and glass end tables. A matching coffee table sat between the couch and a large entertainment center, equipped with state of the art television and stereo equipment. He lowered himself onto the couch, and found several remotes placed neatly on the table. He searched for the one matching the brand name on the stereo and began to fiddle, as men are prone to do. He found the CD function and clicked it. Instantly, his ears were assaulted by loud, thumping industrial music. He fumbled, nearly dropping the remote as he searched for the skip button. The next CD proved to be more of the same. On the third try, he found something agreeable. Julie London's version of "Sway". He sighed and, leaning back against the sofa, let the soft sounds wash over him. So much so, that he didn't notice the faint rustle of fabric and low click of heels.

"Why Bobby, I never figured you for a crooner fan." He bolted upright in his seat to find Dee standing beside him. "I like a man with swell taste in tunes" she joked, a smile creeping across her face. Bobby swept his eyes from the floor up, examining her. She was dressed in a bright, almost hot pink cocktail dress, one shouldered and with a ruffled skirt. An intricate rhinestone necklace adorned her neck, and matching earrings dangled from her lobes. Her hair was swept up, forming a luxurious pile of curls at the crown of her head, and her eyes smoldered with light black eye shadow and liner.

Bobby exhaled slowly "Wow. You look um…"

"Nice?" she finished for him, a slight blush tainting her pale cheeks.

"I was gonna say…ah 'stunning' but n-nice works too." She brought her hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle. He stood and encircled her, burying his face in her neck as she returned his embrace.

Dee lingered for a moment before pulling away. "I've just called for the car; it should be here in about ten minutes." Her eyes went wide "Oh! I almost forgot I have a little present for you! Come this way darling." Bobby followed silently, still lingering on her comment regarding their transportation for the night. He would have been perfectly happy to drive, or spring for a cab even. He felt strangely emasculated by this gesture. Dee led him into her bedroom, where a brightly wrapped package rested on her nightstand. She gave a nervous laugh as she handed the gift to Bobby, her eyes fixed on his face. He struggled for something to say, a blush and the beginnings of a stammer coming over him. She waved her hand dismissively "Don't look so nervous, dear." She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper. "It's really more for _me_ than you." Bobby took a deep breath and started tearing the paper, gingerly at first. Curiosity soon overtook him, and he ripped the box the rest of the way open. Folded neatly underneath a layer of tissue paper, he pulled out a pair of blue, tiger striped briefs, cut high on the hips and low in the front. Bobby instantly turned three shades of red, nearly dropping the box.

"W-What um…what are t-these?"

"What do they look like, silly? I was hoping you'd put them on before we went to the party." She smiled mischievously now, her eyebrows rose in a hopeful expression.

Bobby continued to blush, not sure how to react. He lingered between agreeing to don the ridiculous briefs, or to place them back in the box, promising to wear them 'another time.' Dee proceeded to make the decision for him, as she brought her body close to his, her stomach pressing insistently against his groin. She stood on the tips of her toes to whisper to him "Do you know how hot it would make me, knowing that _these_ are what you have on under those jeans?" That did it. Dee already had his belt undone and was reaching for his zipper. His belt buckle made a metal 'thunk' as it hit the floor. He toed his shoes off and stepped out of his jeans, his anxious cock growing with anticipation. She caught sight of this as she pushed his oh-so-sensible boxers down. Dee reached down and gave him a gentle tug, enough to force his breath inward. She placed the outrageous underwear into his hand and, smiling, gave him a whispered promise of "Later, darling." Bobby slipped the briefs on, adjusting them as they slid over his hips.

"They're um…a little tight in the ah, front area…"

"Don't worry about that dear." She planted a kiss on his cheek before snatching her purse off of the bed. She muttered to herself "You'll thank me for that later."

Her cell phone rang just as Bobby was cinching up his belt. The car had arrived. They rode the elevator down, giggling and tickling each other like two high school kids with too many hormones and not enough time on their hands. They exited the building to find a simple black Towncar waiting. A tuxedoed driver dove for the door handle, holding it open for the snickering couple. Bobby slid in next to Dee, the door shutting beside him. As they pulled away from her building, he removed his hands from her waist and brought it around her shoulders. "So, what's this exhibit about, anyway?"

She looked slightly disappointed as she turned to him. "It's called 'The Model as Muse.' I think it's mostly photographs and famous outfits showcased on mannequins. Basically, it's a visual history of haute couture." She laughed at the almost imperceptible scowl that flashed across his face. She stroked his cheek "I know, darling, it's not a very 'masculine' event to be attending, but the proceeds from tonight's opening will provide funding to Sweatshop Watch. It's an international charity that fights for the rights of underprivileged workers in foreign countries. There's going to be a lot of important people there." Bobby's heart skipped a beat. Important people. Like the Mayor. And where there's the Mayor, there's the Chief of Detectives, at his heels like an attention hungry terrier. His hand met his face. How was he going to explain this? Dee cocked her head toward him. "Something wrong, Bobby?"

He was suddenly shamed at his feelings of embarrassment. So what if the Chief of D's saw him with a dominatrix? His personal life was _his_, and he could see whomever he damned well pleased. Bobby had felt more at ease in the last 24 hours than he'd felt in the last year, and the surface of their…relationship…had barely been scratched. With that, he answered her "It's just that um…I'm sure there will be ah, 'acquaintances' from my line of work there. And if the um…opportunity for an introduction should come up…"

Dee cut in "You're not sure how to introduce your Domme?" She giggled, her eyes lit like a schoolgirl with a secret. She had encountered this problem before, and was long past the point of being offended or embarrassed. "I suppose you have to find out sooner or later. My name…my _real _name…is Kelly Bourque, I own a shoe store in Chelsea, and I am your average, vanilla charity supporter."

Bobby was taken aback. The realization that he didn't even know this woman's real name hadn't occurred to him. "Bourque…I've never um…never heard that name before."

"Well, now I know you've never been south of the Mason-Dixon" she joked heartily. "It's a Cajun name, confined mostly to Louisiana, Cajun being a term used to refer to the French settlers exiled from Nova Scotia, Canada."

"So it's safe to assume that you are from Louisiana?"

She nodded, a slip of pride dancing across her face. "New Orleans, specifically." Her eyes drifted away slightly, her smile fading to a sigh "Best city in the world."

"I guess that explains your unusual choice in ah, perfume."

"Very astute. I actually have it specially blended from a small store down there. I had the perfumer add a touch of 'rain' scent to it. When you smell it from the bottle, it's just like a rainy day back home."

_Hint of water._

"And I really do own that store in Chelsea, by the way. I had to get the funding for my little nightclub somehow." Bobby laughed, and felt himself relaxing. The car slowed to a stop, the Metropolitan Museum of Art towering above them in all its Neoclassical glory. He stepped out of the car and held his hand out to Dee, nervousness fading to excitement. Hand in hand, they ascended the massive stone staircase.

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The party was in full swing, champagne and hors d'oeuvres circled the room on delicate silver platters. Bobby was lost in a sea of satin and shawls. He balanced the martini and rock glasses precariously, searching for her in the crowd. They had been there almost an hour and no sign of anyone that he knew. He caught a flash of pink in the ocean of blacks and blues. Bobby smiled and, holding the drinks above his shoulders, made his way toward Dee. She turned just as he approached her, halting her conversation with…dammit. Directly beside her, was the Chief of Detectives himself. Dee smiled and took her drink from him gently, completely unaware of the fear gripping her new found lover. "There you are, Bobby," she purred. "I was just striking up a conversation with Mr. Wallace here." Still caught in a stunned silence, Bobby meekly stuck out his hand. Martin Wallace met his grip.

"Goren."

"Sir. I see you've ah, met my date already."

"Oh, yes, Kelly and I are well acquainted."

Dee wrapped her free hand around Bobby's arm. "Mrs. Wallace was so generous as to donate some of her time to the shoe drive I coordinated last year. Where is she tonight, Martin?"

"Oh, she caught a bit of a cold last week. Still shaking it off at home. It's just as well. My checkbook can't handle another one of her generous streaks." Dee and Wallace laughed together as Bobby tried to comprehend the situation at hand. It would seem that Dee was much better connected than he thought. He had assumed that the…nature…of her lifestyle would force her out of the limelight. But here she stood the holder of two very separate, very different lives.

Wallace had moved beside Bobby, his arm snaking around the much larger man's shoulders. "Do you mind if I borrow my colleague for a moment, Kelly?"

_Aw, hell._

"Not at all, dear. I was just about to acquaint myself with that lovely Chanel ball gown over there." She smiled and excused herself, leaving Bobby with his not-so number one fan. Wallace urged him away, his arm still wrapped around his shoulder.

"I wanted to take a minute to commend you on your last wrap up. I understand that you got a confession out of him?"

Just as Bobby opened his mouth to answer his superior officer, he was interrupted by a powerful vibration occurring below his waist. His shoulders jerked in surprise. His cell phone was in his jacket. Bobby barely had time to think before the sensation came over him again. It was like someone stuck a pager device on vibrate, and then stuffed it down his pants. "Are you alright, Detective?"

Bobby snapped back to reality. "Yes sir, the ah…scotch, is a little stronger than I expected."

The older man laughed and clapped him on the shoulder "Pace yourself, Detective. You have a long night ahead of you. Now, about this perp…you found him rather quickly, I must say I'm impressed."

"It was my ah, my partner Eames, sir. She's the one who noticed his knot tying skills at the country club."

"Yes, about that. That particular club happens to make large yearly donations to the Retired Officers fund. If you could keep any…references to their establishment out of your press comments, well…let's just say that you'd be doing the department a solid."

Bobby could barely make out his words. The vibrating had resumed, constant and unyielding. It was causing a very expected, very mortifying reaction below his waist. His eyes nearly rolled back, his knees threatening to crumble any second. Regaining composure, he glanced downward. His jacket was buttoned. Breathing a sigh of relief as the buzzing stopped; he turned back toward the Chief and quietly agreed to omit the club's name from his public comments. Bobby ended the conversation as quickly and politely as possible, and then took off after his date. He found her admiring a flowing ball gown, circa 1940. He snatched her arm and pulled her away from prying ears.

"Just what is going on?"

Her eyes wide, she gently replied "I'm not sure what you mean, Bobby."

"You know what I mean!" he hissed through clenched teeth. "What did you put in these…these _briefs?_"

She giggled mischievously. "Just having a little fun, darling." Her hand peeked out from beneath her shawl to reveal a small device, white and plastic. She pressed her thumb down on the large button, sending a shock rolling across his now fully erect member. A groan escaped his lips, his lids squeezing shut over his upward turned eyes. She released the button, watching carefully as his frame relaxed. "Now, unless you want to get zapped again, I suggest you busy yourself with refilling my Cosmopolitan." Bobby took the now empty glass from her, resisting the urge to drag her back to the car and tear her dress off with his teeth. Snarling under his breath, he turned and headed for the bar. A quick buzz to his underwear snapped him back to attention. "No back talk now dear. Or I'll really make you suffer." He dropped his head in defeat and continued toward the bar.

It was going to be a long night.

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**Cheeky, isn't it? Let me know what you think!**


	16. Self Actualization

Thick and stuffy, the air in the car bore down on him like so many gallons of water, surrounding him and choking his ribcage. Absentmindedly, he leaned forward and fumbled with the air conditioner knob, being careful not to spill the contents of his lap. It would be a shame to get her dress dirty. Dee giggled playfully as she was tipped slightly backward, tightening her grip around his neck. Bobby returned to his reclined position, laughing into her mouth. She repositioned herself, sliding farther up his lap and closer to his aching bulge. She had continued her fun with the vibrating briefs, zapping him every time he was involved in a conversation or trying desperately to balance their drinks amongst the swirling crowd. He was nearly foaming at the mouth by the time they left the party. Only his vast knowledge of public indecency laws stopped him from tearing her dress off and ravaging her in the spacious back seat of the Towncar. Decades passed before the car finally slowed to a stop in front of her high rise. Bobby tumbled out of the vehicle, nearly meeting the pavement as Dee followed, giggling with pleasure and a slight vodka buzz. He took off for the elevator like a greyhound set loose from the gates, punching the button impatiently while he waited for her to catch up. She entered the elevator just as the steel doors were closing. Bobby grabbed her and twirled her around, her back against the far wall. Without thinking, he lifted her up, her legs spreading around his expansive hips and hugging his frame. He buried his face in her neck, sucking and biting and licking. She moaned loudly, without restraint, her fingers tangling into his hair. Bobby gently returned her to the floor as the elevator announced their arrival. He grabbed her hand, nearly dragging her down the hall to her condo and planting light kisses on the back of her neck as she fumbled with her keys. They fell forward, together, into her front hallway, barely catching each other before they hit the floor. Bobby struggled out of his blazer, throwing it across the room as he fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. Dee raised her hands to help him, landing kisses across his collarbone and sternum. He needed it. He needed it bad. Bobby walked backwards, leading her to her well equipped dungeon. Reaching behind her, he yanked her zipper down and attempted to remove her dress. Dee grabbed his hands and held them to his sides.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" she purred, the lust thick in her voice.

"I'm trying to get that damn dress off of you" he replied, struggling only half-heartedly against her hold. He knew overpowering her would be easy. Without her leather and irons, she was a petite woman. Her strength existed only in this room, among these medieval devices. But he didn't want to overpower her. No. He wanted her on top, in control and with the final say. A fact that sent a chill of excitement and fear coursing through his body. She giggled against his lips.

"Why, Bobby, you're being a very bad boy, aren't you?"

"Fuck yeah. I'm a bad, _bad_ boy and you need to get my ass in line." She broke the kiss, placing her hands on his chest and shoving him away from her.

"Strip." One word. One simple, unmistakable word. Bobby complied eagerly, purposely strewing his clothes about. The right corner of her mouth twitched, threatening to turn upward into a smile. "Oh, now you're just asking for it." He stood before Dee, clad only in the ridiculous underwear she had given him. She walked to him, and placed her hand on his shoulder, urging him down. He obeyed, sinking to his knees slowly. Not caring about the consequences, he suddenly reached up and encircled her, resting his head against her stomach and inhaling deeply, his eyes closed. She allowed him to linger for a moment, before curling her fingers into his hair and yanking his head back. Bobby stared up at her, his breaths heaving in and out of his nostrils against the pain. She bent at the waist, bringing her face close to his. "Now you've really done it," she hissed. "Stay there." Dee strolled to her wall of tricks, pulling down a bright purple piece of rope. She circled Bobby, a lioness examining her prey. Coming to a stop behind him, she reached down and grabbed his wrists, bringing them together behind his back and binding them. "Since you can't keep your hands to yourself, you won't be using them today." She started for the door, turning toward him just as she reached it. "If you've moved from that spot when I get back, there will be hell to pay." Bobby lowered his head and nodded. He considered calling her bluff; then he remembered the wooden paddle and the hell it wrought across his buttocks. He shivered, and remained right where he was.

Left alone in that room, his thoughts once again drift toward the cowardly, and the frightened. Years of psychological training told him that this was very, very wrong. The desire coursing through his veins, however, told him that there was no other way. The gruesome crime scenes, the cold blooded filth he was forced to confront daily, his distant mother and his fuck-up brother, all served to make him numb, and force him to shove his emotions aside in favor of a detached logic. Logic didn't hurl insults at you when it was off its meds; logic didn't kill frivolously, and logic didn't stare at you with cold, dead eyes, begging for an answer. Bobby Goren decided then, that pain was better than nothing. The familiar squeak of vinyl against vinyl reached his ears, halting his thoughts. Cautiously, he raises his head. Dee stands before him, in a black vinyl corset with red stripes running vertically, a matching thong, black thigh highs and those impossibly high heeled shoes. He wonders if she ever runs out of corsets. Her hand meets his cheek, stroking him gently as she shakes her head. "I'm very disappointed in you, pig. I think that you have some apologizing to do." Without waiting for a command, Bobby leans down and begins licking the top of her left shoe. The patent leather is smooth and tasteless against his tongue. Dee raises her right foot and brings the heel down slowly on top of his shoulder, digging into his flesh and forcing him to the ground. "Get your filthy mouth off of my Pradas" she sneers, giving her heel a slight twist before releasing him. Bobby grimaces, the floor beneath his face the only witness to his pain. She consults her pegboard of torture devices once again, and he is sure by the sound of thin leather smacking her palm, that it's the cat-o-nine.

"_This device is meant for __**quantity,**__ not quality."_

_Aw, hell._

His shoulders tense up, preparing for the beating ahead; he's failed to consider the perfect positioning of his ass, however, and a yelp of pain escapes his lips when the first blow lands across his left cheek. A split second later, his right cheek is throbbing as well. Blow after blow, the vicious little tails find their mark, sending surges of blood to his already engorged dick. "What did you do wrong?" she whispers in between hits. When he doesn't answer immediately, she strikes him even harder. "What did you do wrong, pig?" her voice louder now, anger singeing the edges.

"Madame I acted without your permission" he cries, now fully engaged in submissive mode.

"Wrong!" the whip crashes against him, harder than before.

"Madame! I…I put my filthy mouth on your s-shoe!" He's frantic now, unsure of what she wants. The blows cease, and Bobby breathes out.

"Correct. Your _filthy_ little mouth touched my shoe. I think this little pig is due for a bath." He hears the whip hit the floor the same moment he feels her hand around his arm, gripping him and hauling him to his feet. She pushes him, roughly, out of the room and across the hall, to a spacious bathroom. His arms still bound, he stumbles slightly before catching himself, as she flicks on the light. She reaches for his hips and yanks the battery operated briefs down around his ankles. "Get in the shower" Dee growls, her arm flung outward in the direction of the clear glass stall. Bobby complies, stepping carefully over the metal tracking. She reaches past him and disconnects the shower head from its mounted hook. Turning the water on full blast, she doesn't bother waiting for the temperature change before she turns the hose on him, the cold water sending bolts of shock across his skin. Instinctively, Bobby curls his body around itself, trying to escape the chilly blast aimed directly at him. The water soon turns warm, and he relaxes against it. "Face the wall" she instructs, never wavering in her assault. He turns and places his cheek against the cold tile, reveling in the feeling of the warm water against his bruised ass. She gives his large frame a few more passes with the shower head, before ordering Bobby to face her. He turns, placing his bound arms against the tile wall. She makes a few more passes with the water, stopping for a little while on his throbbing member. He closes his eyes and rests his head against the wall. The water stops, and he opens his eyes just in time to see Dee kneeling in front of him, razor in hand. His eyes widen as she looks up at him. She smiles mischievously. "I like a well-groomed pig," she states simply. Bobby is unable to watch as he hears the hiss of the shaving cream, feels its cool, frothy texture spread across his pubis. Dee smacks the inside of his thighs gently, urging his legs open, and then spreads the cream across his testicles. He moans in response to her touch, almost forgetting what she is about to do. He feels the razor slide down, then across his pubis. After shaving a neat little patch above his cock, she moves to his testicles, working slowly and carefully. Bobby hears a loud pop, then whirr, and opens his eyes just as Dee is trimming the patch above his dick. Satisfied, she stands and examines her work. "There. That's much better" she purrs, reaching for the shower head to finish rinsing away the mess. Bobby glances down at his newly shaven pubis, amazed at how much bigger he looks. "You are to remain neatly groomed for me at all times. Understand?"

"Yes Madame" he murmurs, anxious to get out of the freezing cold bathroom. Dee reaches for a towel and orders him out of the stall. Briskly, she rubs the thick fabric across his body, paying special attention to her newly claimed patch of skin. She works his cock through the towel, gently urging it back to its fully erect state. Bobby moans and buries his face in her hair, still swept up from the party. "That's my good boy" she whispers, releasing him and placing her hand on his shoulder to guide him back to her playroom. He is grateful that the air in the room is warm, the goosebumps on his flesh subsiding. He kneels without being told, anticipating her next request.

"Are you sorry for what you did?" He can only nod in response, afraid that his mouth will get him into more trouble. "I think you need to show me how sorry you are." Bobby dares to raise his head, examining her.

"Madame, may I please remove your shoes and stockings?"

She laughs, a cruel and mocking sound. "No, you may not. But, you may watch me as I do it." He studies her as she perches on the edge of the gurney, setting the straps across her ankles loose and rolling her stockings down. Her legs and feet bare, she walks back over to Bobby, an expectant look on her face.

"Madame, may I please kiss your feet?" She responds with a raised foot, flexing her toes inches from his lips. Bobby leans in and begins kissing each toe delicately. The temptation proves too much to bear, and he quickly wraps his lips around as many toes as he can, sucking frantically. Dee tears her foot from his mouth and brings her hand down hard across his cheek.

"That was a mistake, pig. Now you've lost the privilege of your mouth." She walks away from him, out of his line of site. He knows that she's back at her wall, choosing her next device of torture. Bobby feels something tight across his scalp, as the leather hood comes down over his chin, surrounding his face. Darkness swallows him, his eyes and mouth made useless by the fabric sheath. He makes a conscious effort to breathe through his nose, the smell of leather invading his nostrils, two small holes his only source of air. He feels her hand on his shoulder blades, urging him to lean slightly forward. He obeys, careful not to ruin his balance and go tumbling to the floor. He feels her nails rake down his back, and he shudders beneath her touch. White hot pain streaks down his shoulder blades, and something warm trickles a path down his back. Three more blinding flashes of pain dart across his shoulders, his screams lost in the suffocating hood. As quickly as they started, they are gone. Relief floods him, weighing down every limb. Bobby is dizzy, the skin on his back throbbing and pulsing. He feels something round and smooth against his hips and something wet and slick against his cock. Unexpectedly, Dee slides onto him, her smooth core taking in his entire length at once. Bobby groans loudly, thrusting his hips forward, deeper into her. She responds with a moan that he does not hear, raising her hips slightly and bucking against him. Her nails dig into the carpet, her elbows and knees raw from the friction. She angles her body perfectly with his; Bobby is just the right size to graze her where she needs it. Dee bucks faster, bringing herself to climax, her captive lover completely unawares. She screams into the carpet, her fingers twisting deeper into the soft strands. Her rhythm remains uninterrupted, and Bobby feels himself losing control. He falls over the edge, spilling inside of her as he collapses against her back, exhausted. Dee quickly rolls over and removes the hood, and strokes his hair as he pants against her stomach. When his breathing slows to a normal pattern, she grips his hair and buries his face into her wet center.

"Did I give you permission to cum?"

His reply is muffled against her thighs "No, Madame."

"Then get to work." Bobby complies eagerly, swiping his tongue across her still swollen clitoris. She moans to the ceiling, her hips twisting wildly in response to his strokes. It doesn't take long for him to bring her over the edge again, the blessed sounds of her release filling his ears as her thighs shudder against his cheeks. Dee rests for a minute, panting slowly, before crawling behind Bobby and releasing his arms from the rope. His arms thunk heavily against the floor, and he straightens his knees out to relax his entire frame as he rolls on his side. Dee crawls behind him, curving her body against his as she runs her nails down the side of his neck, eliciting a shiver.

"Why don't we go take care of those nasty scratches, hmm?"

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"Ouch."

It was more of a statement, than an exclamation. The alcohol stings white hot against his beaten flesh, informing him of exactly where on his back he is injured. He sits at her dinette, the chair turned backward, with his arms resting across the top.

"Sshh, darling, almost done" she coos, stretching a large bandage across his torn skin. She had made sure to stand clear across the room while administering the bull whip, careful to deliver only a fraction of the tool's tip to his back. She goes to the other side, cleaning the dried blood to reveal only tiny scratches in his flesh. She dresses them gently, planting a light kiss beside the wound.

"That was ah…i-intense. I didn't think I could handle pain like that." She chuckles lightly.

"You'd be surprised at what the human body is willing to suffer through in the name of sex."

His ribs shake as he returns her laugh, tiny lashes of pain renewing themselves across his shoulders. Realizing that she is done, he turns around in the chair and spreads his legs, leaning forward to pull her into his lap. She squeals playfully, straddling his large frame and burying her face in his neck. "I started to um…g-get dizzy there for a minute. Lightheaded, or something."

"Mmm. Isn't that fun?" she laughs against his skin before standing and taking his hand. "C'mon. It's late." She leads him through the living room and down her hallway into her bedroom. Bobby finds his boxers there, and slides them on as she pulls the covers back and crawls beneath them.

"You ah…you r-really know how to punish me" he states as he slides in next to her, curling an arm around her tiny frame.

"How's that, Bobby?"

"The um…the h-hood, and the blindfold. You know I like looking at you."

She giggles, reaching for the bedside lamp and turning it off. "Well, maybe next time you won't be such a naughty boy." She scoots against him and rests her arm on top of his. "Goodnight, Bobby" she sighs.

"Goodnight, Madame." He rests his nose against her shoulder, the scent of magnolia blossoms carrying him off to a deep, dreamless slumber.

xXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXx

**A/N: I have no idea where that whole shaving scene came from. It definitely was not there when I started writing this chapter. Damn that mischievous muse! As always, thanks for reading!**


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